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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25146754">The Noblest Form of Affection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycamui/pseuds/lucycamui'>lucycamui</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Victorian, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:54:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,001</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25146754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycamui/pseuds/lucycamui</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The duty of a valet appears deceptively simple on the surface: his sole job is to wait upon his master. Yuuri prides himself on his skills as a valet, but will the challenges and heartaches that come hand in hand with serving the lovely and eccentric Mister Nikiforov prove to be too great a hurdle?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>757</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In collaboration with Morrindah. <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1280859302048206850?s=20">Chapter one art available here</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The duty of a valet appeared deceptively simple on the surface: his job was to wait upon his master. However, when defined in specifics, it encompassed quite a significant list. Yuuri was to receive and carry out orders, dress his master mornings and evenings, keep his clothing pressed and presentable, plan and accompany him on journeys—which consisted of packing and unpacking his master’s wares, purchasing tickets for the rail or ship, securing transportation from station or port, reserving accommodations, translating if needed, or else acting as avant-coureur—and when back at his master’s estate, to serve as confidant in his most unguarded moments, keep whatever secret habits his master might be fond of without judgment, and overall be present as needed, whenever needed. It was inarguable that expectations could change with the charge, but all in all his role was to serve the whims and needs of but one master. </p>
<p>In general, a valet was required to have polite manners, a modest demeanor, respectful reserve and, above all, loyalty. In Yuuri’s opinion, the first three were much the same, but it was not his role to question the rules and desires of his master. </p>
<p>Over the course of a small number of years, Yuuri had found himself in the employment of a gentleman who imported goods from the Orient. The job permitted him to travel with his master, a luxury he would have struggled to afford on his own, and there had been promises of opportunities for him to visit home at some point, though that had never come to pass. Now, with his master’s recent passing, Yuuri was left to find a new home to wait upon. </p>
<p>He had not expected the task to be simple, and it did require him to be uncouth in approaching a few of his old master’s contacts. With a bit of work and a lot of generosity, Yuuri’s calendar had come to contain appointments for several interviews, the first scheduled at the Nikiforov Estate. </p>
<p>To say Yuuri was apprehensive about the affair would be to utter pure falsehoods. His nerves had him sweating into his gloves so much, he feared he might leave spots through the well-worn leather, a highly unprofessional transgression. The name Victor Nikiforov was well-known—if not revered—in the city and the country beyond. Mister Nikiforov owned a number of boutiques and was popular amongst women for his progressive designs, though recently gentlemen had also been adopting the trend of tighter trousers introduced by his shops. Yuuri did not earn the kind of salary that permitted him to even consider one of Mister Nikiforov’s suits, but a man had the right to dream. </p>
<p>When Yuuri arrived at the doorstep of the Nikiforov Estate, having paid for a carriage out of his own pocket to ensure a timely arrival, he was greeted by a peculiar sight. He had heard rumors, as everyone had heard rumors, that Mister Nikiforov lived in a home like no other. Yuuri had assumed that meant it was filled with exotic furniture and held striking internal decor. He had not thought that he would come to witness a facade painted in the colors of quartz and periwinkle. It was delicate and beautiful, with snowflakes carved into the trimwork, and was undoubtedly backbreaking work to maintain. Such was the nature of rich men, Yuuri supposed. </p>
<p>Yuuri’s call at the front door was answered with leisure, so much so that he feared he had mistaken the time and checked his watch thrice as he waited. A busy businessman could not always keep the time for himself, and thus came the need for a valet who would do it for him. A little delay was to be expected, surely… </p>
<p>When the door finally opened, and abruptly at that, Yuuri was less than formally greeted by a rather frazzled-looking housekeeper, the woman’s skirt wrinkled along the folds and her hair falling out of its styling. Surprised as he was, he stumbled on his own salutation, quietly clearing his throat to correct himself in response to the unforeseen and blunt question of, “Who are you?”</p>
<p>“Katsuki,” he stated, tipping his hat to her and offering a smile of an appropriate degree. “Yuuri Katsuki. I am here for my appointment with Mister Nikiforov, regarding the position of valet.”</p>
<p>The woman frowned, her brows furrowing into a deep ridge. “He neglected to mention… Who arranged this?”</p>
<p>“Mister Giacometti referred me to Mister Nikiforov, I believe,” Yuuri replied, growing more uncertain by the second. Mister Giacometti did have a playful nature and enjoyed his jokes, though Yuuri doubted he would be the type to toy with someone’s employment hopes. </p>
<p>“Oh,” the woman sighed. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come in, please.”</p>
<p>Thank heavens. Yuuri bowed his head as he entered, removing his hat and then his coat as he stepped through the entrance. From what he could immediately see, everything was neat and clean, with natural light aplenty and wallpaper of an almost shimmering bronze. His momentary worries faded, then settled when he was guided in and directed toward the drawing room by hurried gestures. </p>
<p>“He’ll be working in there, dear. Don’t be afraid to intrude,” the housekeeper told him before shuffling off. Yuuri swore he heard her follow up her words with an under-the-breath mutter of, “See if you can handle him,” but it was quite possible that he had been mistaken. </p>
<p>Yuuri took several calming breaths before approaching the drawing room, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. He would be fine. He knew his job well and he was confident in his ability to be an ideal valet. All he needed to do was to demonstrate that. If Mister Nikiforov was genuinely working, it would be the perfect situation to show off how thorough of a valet he would be. </p>
<p>Announcing himself and hearing an invitation to enter, Yuuri stepped into the drawing room and nearly suffered a heart attack. </p>
<p>With a rather undignified yelp, Yuuri jumped to avert his eyes, his pulse spiking as he stumbled through an apology because he could not possibly have been meant to witness such beauty in a state of such undress. </p>
<p>The vision of long cream-colored legs with exposed calves and the curve of shoulders emerging from a coat-cut undershirt flashed repeatedly in his immediate memory, supplemented by the fine corset that had wrapped around a firm waist. Was the fair lady covering up after a tryst, was that possible? He had thoroughly fumbled his chances now. Long, silver hair cascading over shoulders had been twisted into a disheveled braid, one he could surely correct with a brush and a proper ribbon, if only she were not standing before him in knee-length drawers and—</p>
<p>“Don’t just stand there. Come help!”</p>
<p>The voice that called out to Yuuri was the same one as before, pleasantly deep with a melodic trill, and certainly not a voice that belonged to a woman. Turning with reserved caution, Yuuri saw that the figure he had mistaken for an undergarment-clad woman was, in fact, an undergarment-clad man. The man himself, as it was. At a parlor’s distance from Yuuri stood Mister Nikiforov, his gleaming hair messy at the front as well, a bright smile on his petal-pink lips. By any judgment of manners, he was indecent—and yet undeniably gorgeous. </p>
<p>Over his undershirt—open, Yuuri might add—and drawers, Mister Nikiforov was attempting to string shut a corset and, by the look of the ribbons, he had yet to be successful. Shaking off his astonishment, Yuuri rushed over and took the ribbons over for Mister Nikiforov, who sighed out in relief. He had a foot set on a short stool and had been using it to support himself, but stepped off in order to correct his posture now that Yuuri was at his back. </p>
<p>“Do you know how to lace a corset?” Mister Nikiforov inquired, facing a full-length cheval mirror. In the reflection, his gaze was focused on Yuuri, who was at present trying very hard to contain a blush. He did not expect for his interview to feature his potential employer semi-nude and in a corset. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Good!” Mister Nikiforov was chipper, his tone lifting with delight. “Please do so. Say, for a regular outing. No need to pull in too hard.”</p>
<p>“Of course, sir.” Yuuri said, excusing himself as he shifted Mister Nikiforov’s barely contained braid over one of his shoulders. Careful but diligent, Yuuri laced the corset, starting from the bottom up, then from the top down in gentle alternation until the corset lacing was even and the ribbons tied and tucked. “Is that satisfactory?”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov spun around, glancing over his shoulder into the mirror to check the lacing himself, before nodding. “Take a step back.”</p>
<p>Yuuri hastened to do so, giving Mister Nikiforov his space. The master of the house then spread his legs wide, at twice the distance of his shoulders, placing his hands on his hips as he bent side to side and then twisted at the waist, as if to test the flexibility of the corset. Yuuri watched him with curiosity, particularly when Mister Nikiforov sprang back up only to fold himself perfectly in half, touching his palms to the floor. “Oh, wow,” Yuuri breathed out, unable to stop himself. </p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov popped up like a spring, the smile across his face broad and brilliant. “Yes, isn’t it fantastic? Not quite the support of a fully-boned corset, but the comfort and the range of movement! Marvelous.”</p>
<p>Yes, that too. Yuuri had noticed that the corset was boned only at the front and back, and lightly so at that. “May I ask…”</p>
<p>“It’s for a friend,” Mister Nikiforov interjected with his response, moving to inspect the corset in the mirror. “We had engaged in a game of sport last week, and midway through she threw off hers, insisting that she would never be able to win a round while in the damned thing. I decided that a sport corset was in order, so that she might be at no disadvantage.”</p>
<p>Admirable and practical. “Then this is one of your own designs, sir?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Mister Nikiforov said, tugging along the bottom hem and humming in contemplation. “Still needs an adjustment or two. And I need to lengthen the garters. Oh, I do apologize. What was your name?”</p>
<p>Yuuri blinked, having been under the impression that Mister Nikiforov was already aware, as he had agreed to the interview. Of course, though, Yuuri would not be the only one vying for the position. He would likely have more appointments on top of his, and Yuuri had failed to introduce himself properly when entering. </p>
<p>“Yuuri Katsuki, sir, at your service.”</p>
<p>“A good name,” Mister Nikiforov remarked. “I know a Yuri. Feisty little blond. Great amount of spirit. Will you fetch my trousers and jacket, Yuuri? They’re over on the stand.”</p>
<p>Yuuri had had several jobs in his life, and yet he had never had an interview quite like this one. He had wanted to give Mister Nikiforov a demonstration of his skills, and he supposed that he was doing just that. Regrettably, there was no clothing brush to be seen and Yuuri did not wish to delay by fetching the one in his bag as Mister Nikiforov was gesturing for him to hurry. Yuuri had to make do with draping Mister Nikiforov’s clothing over his arm and smoothing it out as he carried it forth. </p>
<p>Rather than allow Yuuri to help him, Mister Nikiforov snatched the trousers off his arm and stepped into them himself. He did up the fastening and held out his arms. “The jacket, please.”</p>
<p>Yuuri hesitated. He was not opposed to dressing Mister Nikiforov in a jacket while underneath he wore only an undershirt and corset, but there was another issue at hand. “Your buttons, sir…”</p>
<p>The front of the undershirt was undone, with Mister Nikiforov having spent the entirety of their interaction with his chest exposed, the corset covering up only so much. Yuuri’s professionalism knew no flaws, but averting his eyes from the peeking pink of rosy nipples was a test of timing and angles, as well as will. </p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov glanced down at himself. “Oh, do not concern yourself. The corset was digging into the buttons, thus I undid them. Do I offend?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>“Then pay it no mind. My jacket, please, Yuuri.”</p>
<p>That time, Yuuri hastened to aid Mister Nikiforov in slipping into the jacket, moving around to do up the buttons on it and purposefully ignoring those on the undershirt. As the corset was a slim one and not so rigid due to its limited boning, it disappeared beneath the jacket even when Mister Nikiforov pulled the fabric taut around himself.</p>
<p>With proper wares on, Mister Nikiforov managed to appear almost presentable to outside company. Almost. “Sir, if you would permit me, I could freshen up your hair.” </p>
<p>Victor looked at him via the mirror once again, before his blue eyes flickered to the state of his hair. “You’re a man who knows how to lace a corset. Are you also a man who knows how to braid hair?”</p>
<p>“The most accurate way for you to judge my skills would be for me to demonstrate them.”</p>
<p>“Then carry on.”</p>
<p>Yuuri smiled, happy with the opportunity. He opened the bag he had set down when he had rushed to assist Mister Nikiforov with his corset, sorting through the various tools a good valet kept on hand to ensure convenience in his care for his master. He had neither a hair mister nor tonic on hand, items he would be sure to add by the following day, and regrettably neither of those items were ones he would hope to find in a drawing room. A simple brush would have to do. </p>
<p>Fetching a chair for Mister Nikiforov’s comfort, Yuuri gathered his messy hair and brought it back, undoing the ribbon hardly doing its job and draping it neatly over his forearm. He divided Mister Nikiforov’s hair into sections, gently gripping a few centimeters at a time so as not to pull on Mister Nikiforov’s scalp as he began to work the brush from the tips up. </p>
<p>Having been freed from the braid, Mister Nikiforov’s fine silver hair lay in soft waves that grew wild with the first few strokes from the boar-bristle brush, before being tamed. The strands were silken between Yuuri’s fingers and, with some good products and more time, he was convinced he would have been able to make Mister Nikiforov’s moonlight-colored strands gleam in the afternoon sunlight pouring in from the windows. </p>
<p>While brushing out Mister Nikiforov’s slightly unruly hair took time, the braiding itself was swift. As the style Mister Nikiforov had adopted earlier was of a loose plait, Yuuri did the same. He wove the strands over themselves, incorporating the ribbon in the latter half, before tying the tips of the silver strands with a perfectly looped bow. He produced a handheld mirror from his bag and used it to present Mister Nikiforov a reflection in the cheval. </p>
<p>As Mister Nikiforov admired Yuuri’s handiwork, they both hummed with satisfaction, prompting Mister Nikiforov to laugh. “You are here for the position of valet, are you not?”</p>
<p>The comment of what else he would be there for sat on the end of Yuuri’s tongue, but he contained it and nodded. How often did Mister Nikiforov have unfamiliar men coming by, while he was in a state of semi-undress, for it to even be a question? Not that it was his position to judge, and thus he would not do so. Envy and jealousy were also out of consideration. “Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Fantastic. Well, then, I greatly appreciate your assistance today. When are you available to move in?”</p>
<p>Yuuri stared, his jaw slack from surprise. He quickly righted his expression. “Pardon?”</p>
<p>“When will you start?”</p>
<p>“I—” Yuuri was quite unsure of how to respond. “The interview, sir?”</p>
<p>“Unnecessary,” Mister Nikiforov responded, the delicate smile on his lips unfairly pleasing. “I have already made up my mind. Oh, but you must need time to consider... Leave your address. I’ll have a proposal for salary sent by post and, if you approve, a coach sent for your things. I do hope to have you in my service, Yuuri.” </p>
<p>Yuuri had a number of other households he had intended to interview with, and yet… </p>
<p>“I would be delighted.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yuuri was a gentleman of fine manners. He prided himself on his prudence, especially as a man who worked in households of means. That meant he watched his words and did not swear, no matter the company nor the offense. He left the Nikiforov estate with a smile and gratitude, promising he would be in touch in short order, just as soon as he made his decision.</p>
<p>The moment he was outside the gates and had checked to ensure there was no one in his vicinity, Yuuri let out a sigh. “Oh, good lord, have mercy…”</p>
<p>Those rosy pink nipples would not leave his mind. Mister Nikiforov had to be as mad as a hatter and far more charming than one. There was no question that Yuuri absolutely could not work for such chaotic beauty, as it would destroy everything honorable about himself. As he had braided Mister Nikiforov’s hair, he had found himself gazing at that delicate, alluring neck with far too much want in his heart and possibly in his loins. Working for a master he found sinfully attractive was a one-way ticket to being dismissed and blacklisted from all the households in the country.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov was impossibly stunning, so much so that Yuuri continued to experience heart palpitations all the way to the station hotel, where he was staying while he searched for employment. If questioned, he would swear those eggshell-blue eyes had the ability to look into his soul. Up till today, he had heard people speak of Mister Nikiforov’s brash beauty, but he had never expected to be faced with the nude reality of it in such close quarters.</p>
<p>What kind of man conducted an interview while mostly undressed?! And without a hint of shame, too. Absolutely scandalous. Yuuri would wait for Mister Nikiforov’s letter to come and then would decline his offer with sincere but firm gratitude. It was unfortunate, as employment under Mister Nikiforov would surely be wild and wonderful, but it was a risk that Yuuri could not afford to take.</p>
<p>…No matter how stunning and fascinating Mister Nikiforov was. That face was a wonder by itself—Yuuri had only ever seen such perfection in art galleries. Cream-colored skin, hair like the finest strands of silk, long lashes that fluttered like fans of silver. Yuuri did his damnedest to chase his thoughts away from the toned chest and firm calves that he would have the privilege of viewing each and every day should he choose to work for Mister Nikiforov. He could not permit shallowness to be his sole motivation.</p>
<p>There were more interviews written into his calendar and he was obliged to attend them. Doing so would be for the best. He would find another good household to serve, with a respectably conventional family that did not greet their servants wearing nothing but undergarments.</p>
<p>Over the next few days, Yuuri attended several interviews and received offers of employment from a number of them. All but one were for households he would be happy to serve, offering him decent pay and the promise of stability. He was most inclined toward a restaurateur family, as it would be an interesting new experience and there was the added benefit that the children were grown. He had all but convinced himself to formally accept the offer when Mister Nikiforov’s letter arrived.</p>
<p>Yuuri expected flowery language and blandishments, or perhaps insistence, but there was nothing of the sort. What Mister Nikiforov promised in his looping and elegant cursive was room and board, frequent travel, a number of annual holidays, and pay that doubled the highest offer Yuuri had received from all the other households.</p>
<p>The end result was approximately thirty individual sheets of paper crumpled and thrown into the dustbin, all half-filled with failed attempts at a courteous refusal. Yuuri could not work for Mister Nikiforov. It did not matter how generous the employment offer was, nor did it matter how thrilling it might be to work for someone so unorthodox. Mister Nikiforov was known as an eclectic and pioneering designer, and Yuuri had little doubt that would mean travel to regions he had yet only dreamed about. Yuuri was only human—was he, too, not permitted a moment of selfishness? He had faith in his self-control, and surely silent admiration of one’s master was to be expected. A valet who did not admire those whom he served would make for a poor servant.</p>
<p>No, it was best if he did not consider it. Imagination and fancy were a dangerous combination, and when coupled with Mister Nikiforov’s flattery and obvious disregard for norms, it could only spell disaster.</p>
<p>And yet, a week following his first interview, Yuuri had not made his decision. Each time he thought to send his confirmation, he found himself in a state of questioning hesitation. Logic fought with impulse, then with the reminder that Yuuri so often went with the safe choice in spite of his longing for adventure. If an hour in Mister Nikiforov’s presence had left him with such a strong impression, working for him would surely be enough madness to last him a lifetime.</p>
<p>To work so hard to get to his current position and potentially throw it away for a spark of beauty would be the choice of a fool. Yuuri had made his decision. In the future, when there were more savings in his accounts and more individuals of influence in his network, then he would feel freer to act on his whims. For now, he needed to put his livelihood at the forefront of his motivations. He would send Mister Nikiforov his regrets and tender his commitment to the restaurateurs.</p>
<p>It was on his way to the family’s place of business that Yuuri passed through the fashion district downtown, the shops lining the street displaying their wares through sparkling glass windows. With his letter declining Mister Nikiforov’s offer tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, Yuuri paused outside a boutique painted in lilac and gazed wistfully inside.</p>
<p>Under Mister Nikiforov’s employment, he might have actually been able to afford a single tailor-fitted <em>Aria</em> brand suit, but that was a dream for a different decade. The one displayed behind the window appeared to be made of finely spun wool, the midnight blue accented by teal stitching and an inner lining of a rich summer plum. It was a suit meant for cigar lounges or a lord’s coming out party, and not for a valet who denied his own dreams. It was gorgeous, but it was not for him.</p>
<p>As Yuuri made to step away, another striking vision caught his eye. Inside the boutique, clad in a suit of his own design and wearing his hair in a presentable manner, was Mister Nikiforov himself. By an ill-timed stroke of misfortune, Yuuri caught those brilliantly blue eyes and his chest went tight, the smile he was graced with melting all of his prior resolve.</p>
<p>His heart rate quickened when Mister Nikiforov suddenly abandoned the conversation he had been engaged in, and if his reaction time had not been slowed by the absolute panic caused by the approach of such an attractive man, Yuuri might have fled. Instead, he found himself smiling nervously and nodding in polite greeting as Mister Nikiforov pushed open the door of his boutique to beckon him inside with a delighted “Yuuri!”</p>
<p>“I was just lamenting that I had permitted the perfect man to slip away and here he appears upon my doorstep.” Mister Nikiforov’s voice chimed like a wedding bell, sweet and song-like in his joy. “You have left me pining, my dear Yuuri. Was my offer not generous enough?”</p>
<p>His energy was hypnotic and even though he was clothed, Yuuri found himself tongue-tied before him. He was unable to protest as he was pulled into the boutique, his breath catching as he was surrounded by Mister Nikiforov’s designs. Each was more striking than the next, all of them meant to be worn at occasions of note and before a wealthy audience. Yuuri could not help but notice Mister Nikiforov’s eyes sweeping over Yuuri’s clothing, though he was spared a comment.</p>
<p>“N-no, sir. Your offer was more than generous, I—” There was no way Yuuri could admit his doubts about the position to Mister Nikiforov’s handsome face, nor would he be able to face the shame of simply handing him the letter and witnessing his disappointment. “I was… I was just on my way to my final interview! Thus the delay in my response, you see.”</p>
<p>It would have seemed impossible, but Mister Nikiforov’s smile managed to grow wider than before. “Of course. I suspect the whole city is chasing down your services.”</p>
<p>That was not true, but it was not Yuuri’s place to correct the statement. He was not well-adapted to receiving flattery, though the way Mister Nikiforov delivered it, the words felt genuine. “I’ll send my response to you this afternoon. Thank you dearly for your patience.”</p>
<p>“I would wait a lifetime for you, my dear Yuuri.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov’s words were poetry, making Yuuri’s heart flutter like the wings of a painted lady. He could not permit himself to fall into those charms and doom himself. “I—I apologize, I really should be on my way.”</p>
<p>Yuuri turned to make his exit but the moment he did, his path was blocked by Mister Nikiforov. The smile he wore had changed from kind to captious. “Forgive my words, dear Yuuri,” Mister Nikiforov stated, his gaze trained on the bowtie sitting at the base of Yuuri’s throat. “But I cannot permit someone even as lovely as you to leave my boutique in such rags.”</p>
<p>If Yuuri had been struggling for words before, he was now stunned and speechless. He considered his attire perfectly acceptable for a man of his position! He did not scrimp on his clothing, but he also did not spend outside his means. And Mister Nikiforov’s suits were well outside his means. “I beg your pardon, sir?”</p>
<p>“At minimum, let me exchange your jacket and your tie.”</p>
<p>Once again, Yuuri’s protests were muted by surprise as his hand was grabbed and he was pulled to the back of the shop. He was made to stand before a floor-length mirror, and Mister Nikiforov quickly pushed his palms against the center of Yuuri’s spine, straightening his posture into rigidity.</p>
<p>Yuuri watched with wonder as Mister Nikiforov’s silver hair, tied into a loose low tail, swished behind him as he swept behind the shop counter. He produced a tailor’s tape measure and rejoined Yuuri in order to strip him of his jacket. Yuuri muffled a yelp as—rather than being neatly folded and set aside—it was tossed into a dustbin atop assorted scraps of fabric. His bowtie followed.</p>
<p>“M-mister Nikiforov, I do not believe I can afford y—”</p>
<p>“Nonsense. Consider it a gift,” Mister Nikiforov replied, his delight having returned. “Or a bribe.” He winked and smoothed the back of Yuuri’s shirt, then stretched the measuring tape across the curve of Yuuri’s shoulders.</p>
<p>Swallowing his concerns, Yuuri nodded and maintained his posture as Mister Nikiforov flitted around him, making mental notes of his measurements. While Yuuri was accustomed to touching others as was required in his work as a valet, he was not accustomed to being touched himself. Mister Nikiforov’s fingers were as swift as hummingbirds as he tapped Yuuri’s chin, prompting him to lift his face so that the tape could be looped around his neck. Within seconds Mister Nikiforov had moved on, instructing him to raise his arms before slipping the tape under them and tugging it around the widest part of Yuuri’s chest. From there, Mister Nikiforov measured the fullest portion of Yuuri’s stomach and then the length of his arms, starting at the curve of his shoulder, noting how far his elbow dropped, and finishing at the first knuckle of his thumb. The circumference of Yuuri’s biceps was measured, looped snugly, as well as his wrists.</p>
<p>His face was already flushed, cheeks burning with a gentle heat at the constant dancing of Mister Nikiforov’s hands over his torso, and Yuuri believed he had escaped from further scrutiny when Mister Nikiforov backed off to note the centimeters on a notepad. His assumption, however, was mistaken.</p>
<p>The amount of blood coloring his cheeks turned out to be a blessing, as Mister Nikiforov returned with his measuring tape in hand and dropped to his knees in front of Yuuri. Yuuri’s memories flashed to an afternoon in the year prior, when his master and Mister Giacometti had been browsing through trunks of rare books brought in on a caravan from the south of France. Mister Giacometti had given Yuuri a number of books to hold and Yuuri’s curiosity had led to the indiscretion of glancing at the contents and immediately nearly dropping them. Not only were the pages pornographic in nature, but they were explicit in describing affections between men. One of the images seared into Yuuri’s memory made an abrupt reappearance now and he forced himself to stare straight ahead, as looking down at Mister Nikiforov would surely yield disastrous results.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov traced the contour of Yuuri’s belt as he measured his waist, dropping his hands and the tape to then measure his hips. He reached around Yuuri, hooking his fingers under the tape to pull it taut, his full lips curled pleasantly at the corners when Yuuri did dare to glance at him.</p>
<p>“Must you be so…” The inside of Yuuri’s mouth had gone dry and his shirt felt two sizes too small, restricting his breathing. Mister Nikiforov’s fingers flirted across his posterior, adjusting the line of tape to ensure it was straight and would not give him inaccurate numbers. Yuuri’s rapidly beating heart, however, was far from straight. “...thorough? For a jacket?”</p>
<p>“I’ll need your measurements regardless, if you come under my employ,” Mister Nikiforov explained, waving off Yuuri’s inquiry. His hands flattened the measuring tape over the front of Yuuri’s trousers, and he hummed in contentment. “A man should dress to match his looks. And your looks are worthy of clothing of a much higher standard. Now, will you kindly spread your legs, my dear Yuuri? Half a step is all I need.”</p>
<p>Yuuri swallowed his internal crisis and shifted, permitting Mister Nikiforov’s hands to slip in high between his thighs to measure his inseam. For a gentleman so diligent and devoted to his work, Mister Nikiforov’s hands felt devious in the delicate manner that they stroked down the length of Yuuri’s legs, filling his mind with unspeakable flights of fancy. To think, Yuuri might find himself with the ability to hold those hands each day, when helping Mister Nikiforov step into his morning bath or up into an awaiting carriage. Dawn and dusk could be passed brushing strands of fine silver hair, afternoons spent waiting on a master whose beauty rivalled that of the gods described in Grecian myths. Yuuri could imagine the long train rides through the brightly colored European countryside, the glitzy evening parties, the corset stringing in a spur of mad inspiration. There would be scandal, no doubt, but what a marvelous test of his skills as a valet… Mister Nikiforov would deserve only the best of care after all.</p>
<p>As Mister Nikiforov wrapped Yuuri’s thigh in measuring tape, one hand resting on Yuuri’s kneecap to keep the fabric of his trousers from bunching, Yuuri’s resistance broke. A valet was advised to rarely hold a position above his master and yet, while Mister Nikiforov knelt before him in order to provide a service, Yuuri’s voice shook free. “Mister Nikiforov, sir, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need to attend the final interview. Forgive my haste in this moment, but please permit me to accept your offer of employment. Serving you would be the utmost privilege.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov did not react beyond giving a hum, and the quiet that followed as he finished noting the width of Yuuri’s trouser cuffs caused Yuuri’s pulse to gallop. He then lifted a hand, which Yuuri hurried to take, supporting him as Mister Nikiforov rose to his feet.</p>
<p>“I am well aware,” Mister Nikiforov answered, his voice melodic with its joy. With expert strokes of the wrist, he wound the measuring tape into a neat bundle and cast Yuuri a bewitching smile. “Now then, let’s dress you for the job properly, shall we, my dear Yuuri?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1288695974400012288">Chapter Two art, by Morrindah</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A properly trained valet could harbor doubts and apprehensions, particularly when they were based on his experience, and thus first-hand knowledge, of the situation in question. He should not, however, fret or express nerves unnecessarily when it came to matters in which he held little control. Instead, it would be advisable for him to undertake all possible steps of preparedness, minimizing uncertainty while also planning for how to save face for—or in place of—his master. What Yuuri’s training had not prepared him for was when the fretting and nervousness were caused by a scant thought of his new master.</p><p>A mere day after Yuuri had formally accepted the offer of employment from Mister Nikiforov, he found himself standing in front of his master’s estate, at a mild loss from the whirlwind of events that had transpired to drop him on the pastel-painted doorstep. A carriage had been sent to where he had been staying while he sought employment, his limited wardrobe and few personal belongings packed and transported for him. With his letter of employment in hand, Yuuri entered his new home.</p><p>Once again, he was greeted by the housekeeper. She guided him to the room meant to become his bedroom, then showed him the adjacent one where he would be able to care for Mister Nikiforov’s clothing. It was well equipped, with a work desk, steam iron, hanging racks, and more than enough space to accommodate several outfits laid out at once—as he would be sure to need, come parties and travel preparations. He would need to inquire as to, or else purchase, a sewing kit. Standard maintenance on worn clothing was a skill he was learned in and while Mr. Nikiforov was a designer during his working hours, a gentleman of his status should not need to worry about fixing his own clothes while at home.</p><p>Yuuri’s bedroom was likewise more than satisfactory. There was a large window facing east, a detail he greatly appreciated as it would aid with his early morning rising. A large wardrobe in the far corner would fit all of his current belongings, plus more should Mister Nikiforov dictate further changes to Yuuri’s clothing. The bed was wider than his previous one, with a firm mattress but plump pillows, and there was a stove for cold winter days. Yuuri could envision himself living quite happily in such accommodations.</p><p>Mister Nikiforov was out for the evening and, as Yuuri was not officially meant to begin his duties until the following morning, it was a relief. He gave himself a tour of the house, avoiding Mister Nikiforov’s bedroom despite his curiosity. While a valet would be expected to be free and welcome in his master’s room, manners stipulated that he wait for the initial invitation. From what he now knew, Yuuri assumed that Mister Nikiforov would not be offended, but he took no chance at starting his position off on the wrong foot. Rather, he made his way to the kitchen and introduced himself to the cook and maid, wanting to make the best impression possible on the other household staff. Both of them were amicable, unlike the gruff housekeeper, and Yuuri was able to maintain a pleasant conversation until evening settled.</p><p>Yuuri elected to take his dinner in his room, wanting to spend the hours prior to nightfall unpacking and becoming acquainted with the servant’s bathing room. He had been informed that Mister Nikiforov recently had gas geysers installed within the house, which made the heating of water near instantaneous. Yuuri had heard rumors of their wonder—and also of the chance of accidental eruptions—but he chose to focus on the positive.</p><p>The cook, as Yuuri would soon learn, was a master craftsman. The lamb steak and roast potatoes that had been brought to Yuuri’s room were expertly seasoned, delightfully seared, and filled his room with a rich smell that had his mouth watering. It would also become apparent, only a few minutes into his meal, that Yuuri was not the only one drawn to the scent.</p><p>Earlier, Yuuri had worried whether it might be a mistake to leave his door ajar. That question was answered for him as it was pushed open by an unexpected guest. Just as Yuuri had been surprised by Mister Nikiforov on his first visit to the estate, he was surprised again by yet another beauty. A soft sigh slipped past his lips as Yuuri turned and held out a hand, speaking softly, “Oh, hello. Come here. Who are you?”</p><p>The adorable brown poodle that had pushed her way into Yuuri’s room bounded over at the beckon, tail wagging and eyes shining as she nudged a wet nose into Yuuri’s palm. “You’re precious,” Yuuri said, rubbing her floppy ears and smiling when he received a lick in return. If he remembered correctly, he had seen a painting of such a poodle in the drawing room and another in the main hall. She had a ribbon around her neck, from which hung a tag declaring her to be “Makkachin.”</p><p>“A silly name,” Yuuri laughed. In his opinion, a warning that a dog would also be in his care would have been preferable, but he did not mind the surprise all too much. Makkachin, as she appeared to be called, sat upon request. Her ears were perked and tongue lolled out as her parted mouth formed a grin that was nearly irresistible. Although Yuuri would not admit it unless interrogated by Mister Nikiforov himself, he might have succumbed to her charms and slipped her a piece of the lamb steak. A rash action, he was well aware, but he hoped dear Makkachin would keep the transgression a secret.</p><p>Yuuri resisted the urge to spoil her more and finished his dinner. He chuckled when Makkachin followed him out as he went to return the plate and cutlery to the kitchen, learning there that the maid had been looking for the poodle in order to give her the dinner she was meant to receive. To Yuuri’s relief, Makkachin’s meal had scraps of leftover lamb mixed into it. He left the sweet pooch in the maid’s care—though not without giving her head another pat—and returned to his room.</p><p>The rest of the evening was spent unpacking, pressing and brushing his clothing for the following day, and then learning how to work the gas geyser. It was, as Yuuri would quickly discover, a bit finicky but also an utter delight once operational. Perhaps employment in the Nikiforov Estate would be kinder to him than he had previously thought. As he soaked his worries away in hot water and then lay down in a welcoming bed, he could clearly envision how the perks might outweigh the various stresses his unconventional new master would bring.</p><p>That night, Yuuri would permit himself to sleep, and the following morning, he would be well-rested for his first day serving under Mister Nikiforov. Oh, what wonders the day would bring…</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Yuuri had left the curtains open and was able to rise with the first breach of morning light. He washed his face and brushed back his hair, setting it in place with pomade. His attempts to ignore how his hands trembled were unsuccessful, his thoughts fraught with nerves. Mister Nikiforov deserved the best valet in the business, and while Yuuri was certain that it was not him, he had no choice but to persevere now that he had accepted the position.</p><p>After dressing himself and triple-checking his appearance—as well as completing his outfit with one of the ties Mister Nikiforov had gifted him at the boutique—Yuuri made his way down to the kitchen in order to take his breakfast. Yesterday he had learned what time Mister Nikiforov liked to be awoken, so he kept an eye on his pocket watch to make sure he did not miss it. When nine o’clock approached, Yuuri straightened his clothing, took in several deep breaths, and headed toward the master bedroom.</p><p>The early summer morning was warm, and so Yuuri did not need to light a fire to heat Mister Nikiforov’s bedroom upon entering. He had knocked but received no answer, finding Mister Nikiforov still buried beneath light sheets. The poodle, Makkachin, was dozing at his side, curled into a ball. He smiled at her when she raised her head and blinked slowly, conducting a weak investigation as to the nature of the intrusion into her master’s room. She approved of his presence, it seemed, as she soon lowered her head and returned to her slumber.</p><p>Yuuri went first to Mister Nikiforov’s closet and picked out clothing for him to wear during the first portion of the day. He scanned the selection of fits and colors, in case Mister Nikiforov was less than pleased with his initial selection. The more time they spent together, the better Yuuri would understand his tastes and habits. It was inevitable that the first few weeks would yield plenty of learning opportunities. Yuuri simply hoped that Mister Nikiforov would allow him latitude.</p><p>He parted the heavy curtains with purposeful leisure, allowing the light to flow into the room as a gradual warming rather than all at once. Mister Nikiforov gave the impression of the type of individual who enjoyed the fresh morning air, so Yuuri wound one of the windows open, then turned to greet his stirring master. “Good morning, sir.”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov had sat up, silver lashes fluttering open to reveal those eyes of duck-egg blue. It was rightly unfair for any man to look so good upon awakening, his appearance an outright assault on Yuuri’s sensibilities. Mister Nikiforov wore no nightcap, seemingly having braided his own hair again prior to turning in for the night. The loose and uneven braid, just as the rest of his delicate hair, was a sleep-rumpled mess. Yuuri would need to make note of how long it took him to brush out Mister Nikiforov’s hair each morning, as it would likely be a lengthy process, and he would need to account for it on days when there was a strict schedule.</p><p>“Oh, good morning,” Mister Nikiforov called back, a beautifully genuine smile spreading to his rose-colored lips. “That’s right, I have you in my employment now, don’t I? How wonderful. Did you sleep well?”</p><p>“I believe that is the question a valet asks his charge,” Yuuri responded, finding Mister Nikiforov’s room slippers and setting them before the bed, arranged side by side and facing forward so that their owner could easily step into them. “I slept very well, thank you. And you, sir?”</p><p>“Like a dream. When I opened my eyes and saw you here, I believed that I was still sleeping.”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov was too charming for both of their good. Rather than stumble through a response to such an amorous line, Yuuri directed his focus toward his duties. “I have laid out your clothing. Please inform me if you would prefer something different. I shall go prepare your bath.”</p><p>If Yuuri was obvious in his haste to flee to the adjoining washroom, he hoped that Mister Nikiforov would forgive him. A few minutes into his work, Yuuri already had a feeling that mornings might test his dedication to professionalism. He rinsed and filled the bathtub standing at the center of Mister Nikiforov’s expansive bathroom, testing the water to make certain it was not so hot as to make the skin prickle.</p><p>Light footsteps sounded behind him, the gentle resonation of skin on tiles. Yuuri turned to inform Mister Nikiforov that the water should be comfortable, only to lose his tongue completely. How often that happened when he was in his master’s presence.</p><p>Mister Nikiforov stood before him, his long hair pulled loose from its braid and cascading down around him in the gentlest of waves. He had worn a nightgown to bed, one that looked to be of finely-spun silk, the design of it more suited to women than men, but Yuuri had already accepted that Mister Nikiforov was not one for conventions. The line of buttons at the front had already been undone by Mister Nikiforov’s own fingers, the fabric draping his body with a natural parting.</p><p>To add to the stark impression, Mister Nikiforov had let the nightgown slip off the curve of one shoulder, exposing the cream of his skin and the sharpness of his collarbone. Yuuri had been blessed with that view twice now, and yet he still needed to force his jaw shut, to keep himself from gaping at the artwork that was Mister Nikiforov’s form.</p><p>“I—” The prior determination to keep himself from stumbling over words was gone, though Yuuri did manage to swallow any further fumbling. “Your bath is ready, sir.”</p><p>“I see,” Mister Nikiforov mused with a hum, his gaze decidedly set on Yuuri. “Well, is a valet not meant to undress his master?”</p><p>“Yes,” Yuuri replied, discarding his momentary daze to scramble behind Mister Nikiforov, taking the silk nightgown in hand and removing it for him. “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, sir.”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov looked to be nothing more than amused by Yuuri’s error in timing, a light smile gracing his expression as he moved toward the bath. He had the fluidity of a bubbling stream, his skin unblemished and muscles toned in a manner that resembled the marble carvings displayed in museums. Yuuri knew not what crimes he must have committed in a past life to be doomed to the punishment of serving such irresistible beauty, when resisting was all that he could do.</p><p>Folding and setting aside the nightgown, Yuuri offered his hand to a notably bare Mister Nikiforov, assisting his master in stepping into the bath. Mister Nikiforov sank into the heated water, uttering a word of gratitude as Yuuri stepped away to fetch a brush and shaving kit.</p><p>If Yuuri were to think upon tales of mythical beauty, his mind might come upon images of nymphs and of mermaids. The glint of mischief in Mister Nikiforov’s aquamarine eyes and the manner in which he kicked a long leg forward, splashing water, led Yuuri to believe that those tales must have held grains of truth. It was no wonder that foolish men all met their ends in those tales, unable to fend off dangerous temptation. Mere moments with such a view before him, and Yuuri wholly understood their imprudent plights.</p><p>Sitting himself behind Mister Nikiforov, Yuuri took careful grasp of his hair so that he might start on the task of brushing out the strands. Yuuri had enjoyed the task before, but now he could truly savor it. He worked the boar brush gingerly through the long strands until they were smoother than the silk of the gown Mister Nikiforov had slept in, biting back an amused sigh when he realized he would need to repeat the gesture after it was cleansed with castile soap and softened with oil. Yuuri assumed Mister Nikiforov already owned a drying fan and he would have to inquire about it after the completion of his bath.</p><p>With hair as fine and long as Mister Nikiforov’s, Yuuri could tell that mornings would be a prolonged process. However, he was pleased with how Mister Nikiforov relaxed and permitted Yuuri to work at a learning pace, shortening the time with the odd compliment as to the talents of Yuuri’s hands. A man might blush at such flattery, and Yuuri was glad that Mister Nikiforov had closed his eyes so as to spare himself the sight of a flushed valet.</p><p>Once Yuuri finished tending to Mister Nikiforov’s hair, he fetched the face towel he had left to warm on the gas geyser. He draped the damp, hot towel around Mister Nikiforov’s face and let it soften the morning growth as he mixed shaving cream into a lather. The act of shaving required an inherent trust and the fact that Mister Nikiforov neither shied away nor questioned Yuuri about his skills spoke volumes.</p><p>Yuuri spread the cream lather along Mister Nikiforov’s cheeks and chin, working circles over his jaw and midway down his neck. He labored diligently, fingers firm as they caressed Mister Nikiforov’s face, gently pulling his skin taut before running the sharpened blade over it. Right cheek, then jaw. Left cheek, then jaw. Mister Nikiforov assisted Yuuri by pursing his luscious lips when Yuuri requested, shaving his upper lip and chin, before guiding Mister Nikiforov’s head back against the edge of the bathtub so that Yuuri could be granted access to his throat and the underside of his chin.</p><p>Running the blade with the grain, Yuuri took care with each stroke; when he was done, he skimmed the backs of his fingers over Mister Nikiforov’s face to test the thoroughness of the shave. “Tell me what you think, sir.”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov reached up, touching his own skin and smiling in response. “Perfect, Yuuri. As I expected of you.”</p><p>Yuuri could not resist smiling back, rinsing Mister Nikiforov’s skin with cool water and splashing it with bay rum before declaring him clean, proper, and ready to greet the day ahead. “If I may ask, sir. Are there any arrangements I should make for today?”</p><p>“Nothing of note that I can think of,” Mister Nikiforov replied, pushing himself up from the bath to stand. Water fell from his hair and his skin, racing in gleaming rivulets down the contours of his chest all the way to the fever-inducing expanse of his thighs. Yuuri averted his gaze. “Oh, yes! There is one thing!”</p><p>“That is, sir?” Yuuri asked the floor, wishing he had not tied the knot of his tie so tightly that morning.</p><p>“Christophe and Mila, two dear friends of mine, shall be visiting at noon! You’re already acquainted with Christophe, are you not?”</p><p>As Yuuri’s mind was suddenly flooded with images from that book Mister Giacometti had so callously shown him, he could not do much more than nod his confirmation. “Y-yes, sir.”</p><p>Yuuri should have known better than to take employment advice from the salacious likes of one Mister Christophe Giacometti. Come noon—should Yuuri’s heart not stop as a result of constant palpitations caused by the gorgeously wet and nude form of Mister Nikiforov—Yuuri would have to thank the Swiss gentleman dearly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1295965579900260353?s=20">Morrindah's chapter art here</a>
</p><p> <a href="https://twitter.com/impatvish/status/1281772362946408448?s=20">Art by @impatvish</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As it came to be, Mister Nikiforov did disapprove of the clothing Yuuri had laid out for him, though he was fully justified in his dismissal. While his master took his breakfast, Yuuri arranged an outfit more fitting for an afternoon of light sport in the garden. Miss Babicheva and Mister Giacometti were set to arrive just past noon and that did not give Yuuri much time to make adequate preparations.</p><p>He passed a request on to the kitchen for pitchers of lemonade and ginger beer, for fresh fruit, and for sandwiches of egg and cress as well as those of cucumber and cream. The light snacks would keep spirits and energy up on a sunny day, but not weigh down the stomach and inconvenience the romp.</p><p>Yuuri had yet to become acquainted with the extensive garden at the rear of the Nikiforov Estate, though luck came to him in the form of the gardener. He was shown an area of lawn reserved for sport, then gestured toward a small storage house where he found an array of leisure equipment. Yuuri had never drawn out the lines for a tennis court before, but with some careful measurements and effort, he soon had the lawn chalked and the net set into the dirt with relative stability.</p><p>By noon, Yuuri believed he had everything prepared—including helping Mister Nikiforov change into appropriate attire—only to be left with the haste that arose from Mister Nikiforov declaring that he would be receiving and entertaining his guests in the parlor, rather than in the garden. Whether by a stroke of luck or by a curse, it was in that very second that their guests arrived.</p><p>Yuuri’s momentary panic was diverted by a plea from Mister Nikiforov, who asked Yuuri to fetch the corset he had made for Miss Babicheva from his work room, reassuring him that he could see Miss Babicheva and Mister Giacometti in on his own. As a valet was to prioritize the needs of his master, Yuuri had no choice but to obey.</p><p>Perhaps by influence of Mister Nikiforov’s unwonted character, Yuuri had expected his work room to be in disarray, and yet that assumption could not be further from the truth. The space was twice that of Yuuri’s bedroom, with everything polished, neat, and set away in noted order. That should not have been a surprise, as the rest of the home and Mister Nikiforov’s boutique were also similarly tidy. All it proved was that Yuuri had a lot to learn about his new master.</p><p>There was a gift box at the center of the main table, and Yuuri presumed it to be intended for Miss Babicheva. He did peek inside to verify the contents, wishing to avoid the embarrassment that would come with presenting the wrong gift. He returned to the parlor and handed the box to Mister Nikiforov, greeting Mister Giacometti—who was seated in an armchair with one leg kicked all the way up, his ankle resting on his knee—before turning his attention to introducing himself to Miss Babicheva.</p><p>If it had not yet been made clear to Yuuri that he had sought employment in a highly unconventional household, Miss Babicheva’s appearance would have cemented it as fact. Just as Yuuri’s first reception in the parlor had been met with confusion and indecency, so did the second one. He had to bite the insides of his cheeks to restrain a gasp.</p><p>Miss Babicheva stood with the bodice of her dress completely undone and pushed down past her hips, undergarments exposed and corset discarded. While Yuuri might have understood a woman’s comfort in undressing in front of Mister Nikiforov, as he was a women’s designer and a well-respected member of high society, Mister Giacometti was a gentleman far less honorable. Not that Yuuri would speak such slanderous allegations aloud in mixed company. Neither of them, however, appeared to mind.</p><p>“Ma’am, would you care for some privacy?” Yuuri asked, albeit with a tone of hesitation. He could pull over a partition, or else insist that the men vacate the room while she changed.</p><p>No sooner than the words had left his lips, the offer was dismissed. “Nonsense, we’re amongst friends,” Miss Babicheva replied, eagerly receiving the gift box from Mister Nikiforov. “You’re not opposed to serving a woman, are you?”</p><p>“Of course not, ma’am,” Yuuri reassured her, though he did keep a respectful distance and averted his gaze so as not to make her uncomfortable with his presence—they had, after all, only just met.</p><p>“Good. Then help me get this on.”</p><p>Since Mister Nikiforov presently did not require assistance, Yuuri went to Miss Babicheva’s aid. He helped her with lacing the corset snuggly, though not to the point of discomfort, then fastened her gown up over it. The presentation was seamless.</p><p>Miss Babicheva hummed and examined herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands down her sides and the front of her bodice. She did not perform the same feat of athleticism as Mister Nikiforov had, but she did test the give of the corset by bending from side to side and twisting at the waist.</p><p>“Well?” Mister Nikiforov inquired, curiosity and a need for approval layering his voice.</p><p>“You’ll get your answer once I beat you in a game,” Miss Babicheva said, spinning to face her two gentlemen companions. “Christophe? How do I look?”</p><p>“My darling, you know that I would consider you stunning even if you were wearing one of Leroy’s gowns.”</p><p>The laugh she gave in response was curt and unamused. “Shall we proceed, then? I’m eager to see how it holds up.”</p><p>The sun was high and bright over the garden and the makeshift tennis court. Yuuri had already prepared a seating area where the three could rest and relax between rounds, or if they grew bored of the game. As they strolled out, engaged in light conversation, Yuuri followed with an open parasol held over Mister Nikiforov, to shield his fair skin from the strong sun. Even if tending to Mister Nikiforov’s burnt, tender skin would be a chance for lingering proximity, he did not think he would be able to stand the look of pain on Mister Nikiforov’s beautiful face. It was enough to be tormented by how Mister Nikiforov’s tennis trousers hugged his full backside, with the vision of it bared still fresh in Yuuri’s mind.</p><p>The game of lawn tennis started innocently enough. Miss Babicheva took the court across from Mister Giacometti, while Mister Nikiforov chose to observe from the sidelines. As the ball was hit gently across the net without much spirit of competition, Mister Nikiforov called questions out to Miss Babicheva about the comfort and fit of the corset, whether the boning was bothersome or unsupportive, about the stiffness of the fabric, the ease of movement, and even the absorption of heat. She replied to each easily, holding a steady rally with Mister Giacometti. By all appearances, their game was an upright showing of an afternoon in mixed company.</p><p>“My dear Yuuri.” Mister Nikiforov glanced over his shoulder, his smile small and gentle. “Will you please fetch us some drinks? I can hold the parasol on my own until you return.”</p><p>Nodding, Yuuri handed the parasol to his master and dipped his head before returning to the house in order to grab the prepared pitchers and the carefully arranged picnic basket of food. He was away from the garden for not ten minutes, and yet in that time, the respectability previously displayed by Mister Nikiforov’s guests in their game seemed to have been lost.</p><p>In his absence, the pace of the game had been elevated and brought upon a number of changes that had Yuuri reeling. Miss Babicheva had hitched the skirt of her dress up to her knees and tied it in place, so that she could sprint more readily across the lawn. Mister Giacometti had abandoned his sport jacket, leaving it discarded atop the chalked lines, and undone so many of his shirt buttons that the curls of his chest hair were clearly in view.</p><p>Of course. Of course Mister Nikiforov’s companions would be as wild as he was. Yuuri knew Mister Giacometti—he should have expected no less—and his first impression of Miss Babicheva should have already convinced him of her free spirit.</p><p>As if that were not enough of a scandal, his master’s brown poodle—whom Yuuri had not seen slip from the house—was chasing the tennis ball back and forth across the lawn, with Mister Nikiforov laughing as he watched. The parasol was folded and lying on the grass, doing nothing to keep Mister Nikiforov’s milk-pale skin from taking on a pink tint.</p><p>While there was nothing mannered Yuuri could do to control the wildness of his master’s guests, he was able to come to Mister Nikiforov’s rescue. Yuuri—with careful haste—set down the drinks and basket, lured Makkachin off the court with a spare ball, and got the shade of the parasol back over Mister Nikiforov’s fair features.</p><p>“Oh, Yuuri, you didn’t need to remove Makka,” Mister Nikiforov said, reaching down to ruffle his poodle’s ears as she flopped down onto the grass in order to gnaw on the tennis ball between her paws. “She wasn’t doing any harm.”</p><p>“If she were to be hit by the ball and injured, it would disrupt the afternoon,” Yuuri stated, keeping the parasol over Mister Nikiforov with one hand while he unpacked glasses and poured out a serving of lemonade for him with the other.</p><p>“I suppose,” Mister Nikiforov sighed, accepting the drink offered to him. “Thank you.”</p><p>The lightly sweetened lemonade left a wet shimmer on Mister Nikiforov’s lips. Yuuri had to force himself to look away.</p><p>“Victor, my darling, won’t you join us?” Mister Giacometti called over, pausing to allow Miss Babicheva to resecure her skirt, as it had fallen back down to its original length. “We could get a real game going and really test that fine creation of yours.”</p><p>“Two against one?”</p><p>“Unless Yuuri cares to join us.”</p><p>Yuuri blinked in response to his name being brought into the conversation. “I could not impose.”</p><p>“It’s hardly an imposition when you’ve been issued an invitation,” Mister Giacometti laughed. “Victor, he’ll listen to you if you ask him.”</p><p>Just as Yuuri feared would happen, Mister Nikiforov turned on him with a beyond beautiful pout. “Do you know how to play?”</p><p>Yuuri could insist, despite the invitation, that he was more at ease with serving out his duties off the court. He could make sure they did not need to go chasing after a ball that left the court, that they had drinks at the ready, and that the food remained shaded. However, he also did not wish to disappoint a hopeful master. “Yes, sir.”</p><p>“Then will you join us?”</p><p>A valet was not obligated to blindly follow the orders of his master, but it would be in bad form to refuse on the first day of employment. “Yes. But I will beg your pardon in advance if I do not meet your expectations.”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov’s smile stretched widely across his face. “Wonderful! Chris, join Mila. Yuuri shall be on my team. ”</p><p>“Oh, I would lay down a wager on that,” Mister Giacometti added a wink onto his comment, and strolled at leisure to the other side of the court.</p><p>The spare racquet felt odd in Yuuri’s hands, and it was difficult for him to recall when he had last held one. His former master was an avid player in his spare time, and had on occasion demanded that Yuuri act as his opponent in practice sessions, when his usual partner was unavailable. Yuuri had enjoyed the sport, though it had been a long while since he had the opportunity to engage in a game.</p><p>He let Mister Nikiforov and his guests lead, hitting the ball back when it came to him with the sole intent of keeping it in play. The only shame about playing on the same side as Mister Nikiforov was that he could not easily admire his master’s athleticism.</p><p>“Victor, did you receive the invitation for the gala the Crispinos are throwing?” Miss Babicheva asked, easily returning a ball hit toward her feet.</p><p>“You ask him as if he’s checked any of his correspondence in weeks,” Mister Giacometti laughed dismissively. “Best tell him instead.”</p><p>“Well, they’re throwing a gala. And since you refuse to host one of your own, I would encourage you to at least attend theirs.”</p><p>“This again.” Behind him, Yuuri could hear Mister Nikiforov scoff and lob the ball back with a touch more force than before. It landed outside the lines. “A party at which I am obliged to humor interests and avoid the fluttering lashes of every eligible bachelorette. I shall tell you again, my dear Makkachin is the only woman I need in my life…” He paused, then added, “Other than you, Mila,” as an obvious afterthought.</p><p>“Such forced flattery does not suit you, Victor.”</p><p>“Then do not push me into it.”</p><p>Miss Babicheva rolled her eyes and served the ball, and Mister Nikiforov returned it with another solid smack. Yuuri gently parried it back across when it spun in his direction off Mister Giacometti’s racquet.</p><p>“Victor, you’re not one for the rules. Why not let Christophe throw your coming out party, like he did his own? You’re way above age. It’ll fulfill the obligation, and maybe you’ll meet yourself a nice gentleman.”</p><p>“I have already been acquainted with every gentleman in the city.”</p><p>“Then go outside the city.”</p><p>“And if there’s already a gentleman who has caught my interest?” Mister Nikiforov challenged, skipping the ball off the top of the net. It dropped on their side of the court, giving the point and the set to the guest team.</p><p>“All the more reason to throw a party and invite him,” Mister Giacometti said, his hazel eyes flickering toward Yuuri.</p><p>Now it made sense why Mister Giacometti had so freely given his recommendation of Yuuri’s services to Mister Nikiforov. Mister Giacometti had long suspected Yuuri’s inclination toward men. Although Yuuri had never confirmed it, preferring to keep his fancies private, if Mister Nikiforov leaned in the same direction then it explained Mister Giacometti’s conviction that they would make a good match. Mister Nikiforov had a valet that would not judge his personal tastes nor question the gender of any overnight visitors, and Yuuri would not have to invent excuses as to why he did not flirt with the maids of other households.</p><p>“And if I refuse?” Mister Nikiforov asked, serving the first ball of the new set.</p><p>“Then we will be left with no choice but to throw one for you.”</p><p>Yuuri had only attended one coming out ball before, for the daughter of his former master. They were lavish things, brimming with costumes, music, expensive food and sparkling wine. If Mister Nikiforov were to have one for himself, Yuuri would need to seek assistance in planning one grand enough for his master. However, the idea of Mister Nikiforov spending an evening in the arms of a multitude of interested men and women made his stomach bitter, as if he had consumed sour milk.</p><p>“Yuuri, my dear,” Mister Nikiforov called, his tone pleading. “Will you please defend my honor?”</p><p>Yuuri responded to the request by sniping the next ball that came over the net and smashing it down the centerline. Miss Babicheva and Mister Giacometti gazed at him flatly and with a mild shock, unmoved from their positions on the court.</p><p>“Was that all right, sir?” Yuuri asked, glancing back at his master.</p><p>Mister Nikiforov was laughing with delight. “Yes! Now that is more like it! I knew I had picked myself a wonder of a valet. More like that, Yuuri, please. Fifteen-love!”</p><p>They won the next two sets, as well as the game, their points driven by Yuuri’s sudden flare of competitiveness. Despite their victory, Miss Babicheva did declare Mister Nikiforov’s new sport corset a marvel, and Mister Nikiforov’s resulting smile was even lovelier under the warmth of the sun. Yuuri could easily grow accustomed to the nonconforming habits of his master and his companions, if that smile were to be a constant reward.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1306948752041746432">Chapter four art</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun had taken a dip toward the horizon by the time Mister Giacometti and Miss Babicheva took their leave. Yuuri could not help but notice that the joy previously dominating his master’s demeanor soured not long after their departure. Yet, when he cautiously inquired if there was anything amiss, his concerns were dismissed and Mister Nikiforov reassured him that all was splendid.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov spent the evening in his workroom and requested that he not be disturbed. Yuuri thought nothing of it at the time, bowing to the request before closing the door for his master. Yuuri spent the time tending to the clothing Mister Nikiforov had worn for tennis, ensuring that it was washed, dried, and pressed properly so as to be pristine and ready the next time his master engaged in sport.</p>
<p>However, when the time for dinner came and went and Mister Nikiforov did not emerge from his workroom, Yuuri was informed that the master of the house would sometimes let mealtimes slip, especially when well-engaged in his work. A gentle reminder, during those times, was to be part of Yuuri’s duties.</p>
<p>Yuuri approached Mister Nikiforov’s workroom with steps that were deliberately heavy, though he kept the rap of his knuckles on the door gentle. “I was sent to see if you would care to take your dinner?” he asked, after being granted permission to intrude. He did not enter the room, keeping in the doorway.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov’s previously neat work desk was a mess, littered with different scraps of fabric in every color imaginable. At the center, Mister Nikiforov had a sketchbook open. What appeared to be pages taken from within it were crumpled in a heaping pile, filling the wastebasket at his feet.</p>
<p>Yuuri forced himself to restrain the smile threatening to plump his cheeks. So even those who possessed an unrivaled talent had days when inspiration was lacking. What a wondrous reassurance. “Sir?”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Mister Nikiforov looked at Yuuri as if he were only realizing he had company, despite having answered to his knock. “Dinner, you said?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take it in here today,” Mister Nikiforov replied, sighing in exasperation at his desk. “If you don’t mind, will you bring my darling Makkachin hers as well?”</p>
<p>“Of course. Right away, sir.”</p>
<p>Yuuri delivered the meals in two trips, serving Mister Nikiforov his dinner of braised chicken and vegetables before bringing Makkachin her similar but unseasoned plate. He excused himself, only to be stopped by a hand gripping his sleeve.</p>
<p>“My dear Yuuri, have you eaten yet?”</p>
<p>“Not yet, sir. A good valet dines after his master.”</p>
<p>“Would a good valet dine with his master?”</p>
<p>Yuuri smiled and answered with a nod. “If he were to request it.”</p>
<p>“I request it. I’ll tidy up a space for you. Please bring your plate here and do not be shy with your portion if you’re hungry.”</p>
<p>“Gladly, sir.”</p>
<p>In the short time it took Yuuri to return with his own meal, Mister Nikiforov had tidied his desk, turning the mess into sorted piles that not even the pickiest maid would judge. Yuuri sat down across from him, content to keep his plate in his lap, but Mister Nikiforov insisted that Yuuri join him and sit by his side at his work desk. Eating together hardly pushed any boundaries, and yet the proximity of their elbows had Yuuri’s heart squeezing itself within his chest.</p>
<p>“Please talk to me, Yuuri,” Mister Nikiforov said after a few minutes passed in relative silence, his blue eyes pleading. “The quiet is very… loud, right now.”</p>
<p>It may have been a contradictory statement, but Yuuri understood the meaning behind the words very well. He often found the quiet deafening when he was trapped in the spiral of his own worries. “Did something upset you today?”</p>
<p>“Mila liked the corset so much that I thought I’d make a dress that would create the perfect tennis ensemble together with it, and yet I cannot come up with a single idea worth investing the time or the effort into,” Mister Nikiforov sighed, pushing a piece of steamed broccoli around his plate as if he were a pouting youth.</p>
<p>“A long day in the sun can be quite exhausting,” Yuuri said. Mister Nikiforov’s cheeks and the tips of his ears had burnt plum-blossom pink despite Yuuri’s best efforts to get him under the parasol any time they were not on the court. “Perhaps you just need rest today? A fresh mind is a strong ally.”</p>
<p>“So wise, my Yuuri.” Mister Nikiforov smiled at him and pierced the broccoli with his fork. Rather than placing it in his mouth however, he dropped his hand, offering it to the poodle resting by his feet. Makkachin gingerly removed the vegetable from the prongs and—once free of the silver—chomped with delight. “I do suppose you’re right.”</p>
<p>The reluctance in Mister Nikiforov’s tone, however, suggested there was another matter dampening his mood. While a good valet should never pry where his master was unwilling, he was expected to carry his master’s burdens, particularly when it would help relieve the weight they put upon his master. A good valet also took note of conversations and noted his master’s responses, in case the details were pertinent and needed to be recalled in future engagements.</p>
<p>“Was it the talk of parties?”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov looked at him with mild surprise, but it quickly melted into an expression soft and relieved. “You are too observant.”</p>
<p>“It’s my job, sir. If you are not fond of parties, that is something I should know, so that I can decline invitations adequately on your behalf.”</p>
<p>A smile was far more fitting on Mister Nikiforov’s face than a solemn frown. “Don’t mistake me. I love a good party. However, what I lament is that I have approached the age where the expectation is for me to be respectable and find a lovely young lady to wed and raise a family with. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but the idea of being bound to someone at the expense of my work and my freedom is… less than appealing. Why can I not be content as an eternal bachelor?”</p>
<p>“Do you not wish to share your life with someone, should you find the right partner?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I dream of it.” Mister Nikiforov laughed but no joy reached the corners of his eyes. “You must understand, however, that it is more of a challenge for someone like me. Hosting something like a coming out party would only be a waste of everyone’s time, when I do not believe that I have any chance of finding my soulmate at one. Does that make sense?”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“But? I can hear the ‘but’ in your voice, my Yuuri.”</p>
<p>“It is not my place to question your convictions, sir.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but then will I ever grow as a person?” Mister Nikiforov retorted, casting Yuuri a wink. “Out with it.”</p>
<p>“If you are bothered by your friends’ insistence on throwing a party for you, then why not let them do it?” Yuuri said. “They’ll be satisfied, and if it isn’t a success, you have fuel to dismiss them later, now with evidence. And if by some miracle, you do meet a person you can love… Well, I do not believe you would have to worry about your work or your freedom. The right person will be someone you should always find comfort in, who will support you rather than restrict you, and who will celebrate your work more than you do yourself.”</p>
<p>“I do not want someone blindly telling me that everything I do is brilliant.”</p>
<p>“Then they are not a fit for you, are they?” Yuuri stated, picking up one of the crumpled pages on the floor. “They would recognize your needs and agree that these scribbles here today are absolute rubbish and should be treated as such.” He crumpled the paper into a smaller mass and tossed it at the overflowing wastebasket. “Sir.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov stared at Yuuri, with a similar disbelief to that which Mister Giacometti and Miss Babicheva had sported when Yuuri had thoroughly beaten them in their game of tennis that afternoon. Then, he began to laugh, full-throated and hearty, his shoulders trembling with the force of it. “I could wed you, my Yuuri, and then all my issues would be solved.”</p>
<p>With a soft, much lighter sigh than the one prior, Mister Nikiforov set his utensils atop his finished plate and a hand atop his closed sketchbook. “Thank you for joining me, Yuuri. Will you leave me for now and then come fetch me when it is time for bed? I might have found a few ideas rattling around in this empty skull of mine.”</p>
<p>“Happy I could be of service.” His words were sincere, and the rest of his evening duties flew by on the wings of knowledge that he had, by some miracle, managed to provide the smallest bit of relief to Mister Nikiforov.</p>
<p>Yuuri turned down the sheets of his master’s bed, getting his room ready for the night before going to fetch him. The pile of pages in the wastebasket had increased, but Mister Nikiforov seemed far more at ease. Yuuri took Makkachin from him, taking her on an evening stroll and washing her feet upon returning home, so that she would be fit to jump into her master’s bed should she be so permitted.</p>
<p>He returned to find Mister Nikiforov already in his bedroom undressing himself. Yuuri rushed forward, taking his vest from his hands and helping him out with the rest of his clothing. Once Mister Nikiforov was nude, Yuuri fetched his nightgown, holding it out so that his master could easily slip into it. He had not noticed it that morning, perhaps because he had been too distracted by how openly Mister Nikiforov had worn it, but the fabric was sheer. Although it was layered, should Yuuri cast his eyes down, he might tempt a blush to his cheeks.</p>
<p>While Mister Nikiforov climbed into bed, Yuuri folded and set aside his day clothing. Makkachin did jump into bed alongside her owner, shifting to flop comfortably by his feet. Yuuri smiled, walking over so he could fluff his master’s pillows once more and drape the cotton summer heat over his legs. “Sir… might I brush and braid your hair, so that it may be more comfortable for your sleep tonight?”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Mister Nikiforov touched his hair and nodded. “Yes. Yes, please. Will it be too much of a hassle for you if I stay here?”</p>
<p>“Nothing you could ask for would be too much of a hassle.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov smiled beautifully in response. “Then will you fetch me the book on my nightstand?”</p>
<p>Yuuri found Mister Nikiforov’s hairbrush on his vanity and brought it over, grabbing the book just out of his master’s reach to hand to him. He excused himself as he placed one knee on the mattress behind Mister Nikiforov, sweeping his loose hair over his shoulders and letting it lay flat across his back. “Please tell me if you’re uncomfortable at any point.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov hummed, drawing his knees up and placing the open novel atop his lower thighs. Yuuri did his best to not stare at the exposed skin of his ankles and the view of toned calves through the sheer fabric of the nightgown. It was laughable, really, as Mister Nikiforov had been nude before him multiple times that day, and would be in such a state every day, throughout the length of Yuuri’s employment. Yet, it was the sliver of skin and the sheer nightgown that had him burning under the collar.</p>
<p>Yuuri started brushing Mister Nikiforov’s hair in sections, gently holding the strands and working the boar-hair brush from the tips up. The process was slow, with the length and volume of Mister Nikiforov’s hair, but Yuuri hoped he found it as soothing as he did. The brushing slowly transformed the day-worn strands to silk and midway through, Mister Nikiforov set aside his book, sighing in clear contentment as he closed his eyes and leaned into Yuuri’s ministrations.</p>
<p>“I thought about what you said earlier,” Mister Nikiforov said quietly, drawing Yuuri’s attention.</p>
<p>“About what, sir?”</p>
<p>“About the party. Perhaps you’re right. Rather than spend months arguing with them, it may be smarter to simply host one. It’s not like a party obligates an engagement.”</p>
<p>“Should I start planning one, then?”</p>
<p>“Have you ever planned a coming out party?”</p>
<p>“Once,” Yuuri answered, setting down the brush and threading his fingers through Mister Nikiforov’s hair. He kept his touch light, creating three ribbons of silver, which he began to braid. “For my former master’s daughter.”</p>
<p>“How did it go?”</p>
<p>“It was splendid. She did not find a suitor there, but she did become engaged a year later, to a gentleman she met through a family friend.”</p>
<p>“That is reassuring.”</p>
<p>“You are the only one who would think so, but yes,” Yuuri chuckled, weaving Mister Nikiforov’s hair into a thick, gorgeous braid. He wished he could adorn it with flowers and gems. If Mister Nikiforov did choose to throw a party, perhaps Yuuri could convince him to mandate costumes, so Yuuri could selfishly do exactly that.</p>
<p>Yuuri tied the end of the braid with a bow, then draped the length over Mister Nikiforov’s shoulder. “If you’d like to lie down, sir, and tell me if it disturbs your head.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov took the suggestion, shifting back on the bed and lying down on one of the fluffed pillows. He smiled, walking his fingers over his braid. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“It’s a privilege, sir.” Yuuri handed him back the door and stepped back. “Would you like me to leave the lamp on for you?”</p>
<p>“I’d like to read for a bit longer. I can put it out myself.”</p>
<p>“Then, if there is nothing else, I’ll bid you good night.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov nodded, smiling at him with utter sweetness. “You are such a comfort, my dear Yuuri. I don’t suppose I could tempt you to spend the night here with me? I so enjoy your company. It is a shame to let you leave me.”</p>
<p>Yuuri could not recall if Mister Nikiforov had yet to leave him speechless that day, but it seemed to be about time. Surely, Mister Nikiforov did not mean it in the manner that Yuuri’s mind leapt to, his thoughts were of sheer nightgowns falling away, of cream-smooth skin beneath his touch, and curtains of silver hair cascading onto his skin.</p>
<p>“I-I beg your pardon, sir,” Yuuri stammered, barely keeping himself from tripping over his own feet. “I assure you, you’ll have more restful slumber with—without me. Good night!”</p>
<p>He fled, slamming his master’s bedroom door with a fraction more force than necessary, but it was a considerable fraction less force than that with which his heart pounded. One day in the Nikiforov household down, a lifetime left to go. Yuuri was not sure how he could possibly hope to survive.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1318768463817691138?s=20">Chapter art by Morrindah</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Considering the strong impression made upon Yuuri by his first day in Mister Nikiforov’s service, he had expected the days to follow to be a flood of chaos. However, as he was soon to learn, outside of the peculiar company that his master kept and his tendencies to tread just a step outside societal norms, Mister Nikiforov maintained an arguably ordinary life. </p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov did not run his business with an iron fist, preferring to leave the management to trusted staff so that he could have the time and freedom to be creative with his designs. Yuuri did accompany Mister Nikiforov to his boutiques at least twice a week, thoroughly learning about his master in the process. It was natural and advised for a valet to understand the details of his master’s work, so Yuuri took careful note of all that he could.  </p>
<p>He made the acquaintance of several of Mister Nikiforov’s business contacts, as well as a number of wealthy clients who commissioned him for specialty gowns and custom suits, creations that Yuuri always found stunning even from the initial sketches his master drafted. On one occasion, when a messenger boy was not available and the delivery needed to be made in a hurry, Yuuri ran completed designs to a magazine publisher, for their upcoming feature on the upcoming sales of Mister Nikiforov’s new sports corset. </p>
<p>Over the weeks, Yuuri grew more and more familiar with the full extent of Mister Nikiforov’s work. He also learned that, despite being such an immensely popular designer and a household name, Mister Nikiforov spent many of his days alone, neglecting company in favor of dedicating himself to his craft. That was one aspect of Mister Nikiforov’s preferences that Yuuri did not yet fully comprehend; his master seemed content to work quietly on his own, yet his mood always appeared to lift when Yuuri was at his side, whether to act in assistance or simply to offer company. </p>
<p>Of all his duties, mornings remained Yuuri’s greatest challenge. No matter that Yuuri came to rouse his master each and every day, his heart always fluttered when he was greeted by his master’s smile upon waking. Mornings were also the most tranquil, even when they came before the most hectic of schedules. The comfortable pattern of helping Mister Nikiforov bathe, shaving his face, then drying and styling his hair gave Yuuri calm and confidence, convincing him more with each day that he had made the right decision in choosing his master.</p>
<p>Yuuri learned which clothing Mister Nikiforov preferred on which occasion, his favorite meals when at home and while out, how he liked his tea—with strawberry jam but no milk or sugar—and also gained a sense of when it was best to quietly adjust his master’s schedule, postponing appointments or rescheduling minor obligations when Mister Nikiforov was in the midst of a particularly creative mania. </p>
<p>While Mister Nikiforov did not invite Yuuri to share his bed again, his compliments and fond speech only grew more consistent as their days together wore on. Yuuri did his damnedest not to notice that his master did not have a penchant for flirting with anyone else, not the fair ladies he sold his gowns to nor the handsome gentlemen who visited his boutiques. Mister Nikiforov was only professional to the utmost degree, at times full of flattery, though he never crossed the boundary into coquetry. Yuuri wrote off Mister Nikiforov’s targeted sweetness as the bond between master and valet, since it was a relationship that benefited greatly from devotion and familiarity. Anything more was a fantasy and one that Yuuri could not permit to grip him. </p>
<p>Two months and some days into Yuuri’s service, Mister Nikiforov requested for Yuuri to arrange a short trip abroad. A few days in Geneva, he said, to be spent fabric hunting. According to his master’s word, there was a fabric district in the city that he was fond of and the turn of the season meant an ideal time to seek out potentially exciting new patterns and imported silks. Yuuri noted the area mentioned and set about preparing. </p>
<p>The journey would require a full day on its own, with Yuuri making arrangements for a carriage to take them through the countryside to the port on the coast. From there, they would board a ferry across the channel and then an overnight train to their final destination. Yuuri took Mister Nikiforov’s specifications into account as he purchased tickets and sent a telegram for their accommodations, checking the details to ensure that the trip would be as smooth and enjoyable as possible. It would be their first time traveling together and travel often made Yuuri anxious, as missed timetables often proved difficult to rearrange. </p>
<p>On the morning of their departure, Yuuri found himself flustered, unable to stop himself from constantly rifling through his pockets to guarantee that he had not misplaced any tickets and looping past the front hall in the worry that he had forgotten to set out their packed suitcases. He fretted with the concern that he had somehow neglected to pack some essential, horrific visions flashing through his mind of Mister Nikiforov wishing to turn in for the night on the train only to discover that Yuuri had left his nightgowns behind. Then there was the added horror of knowing his master surely would not mind, insisting that he could sleep in the nude, which would increase the chances of a nighttime raid upon their carriage—Yuuri unpacked and repacked the suitcases three times before he was able to clear himself of such a fantastical fear. </p>
<p>Noon arrived with their carriage and Mister Nikiforov laughed as Yuuri ran through the house one final time, excusing himself in a nervous bid to guarantee nothing necessary for their journey had been accidentally overlooked. It hardly mattered that Mister Nikiforov insisted there was nothing they would not be able to find along the way, if genuinely needed, as Yuuri did not wish for any part of their journey to be soured by his incompetence. </p>
<p>“Yuuri, you’re making <i>me</i> nervous,” Mister Nikiforov teased when Yuuri finally consented to settling in the carriage, their suitcases loaded and the door shut firmly behind them.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon,” Yuuri sighed, knowing that he should have approached the trip with far more calm and control than he was currently displaying. His own zeal meant they had departed several minutes behind schedule—hardly an issue—but if delays down the road caused them to miss the ferry, he would never forgive himself. “On top of this, I keep worrying my watch is running slow and we’ll be abandoned on the coast.”</p>
<p>“A real adventure!” Mister Nikiforov responded, his smile lovely as he gazed across at his valet. “I would enjoy it all the more.”</p>
<p>Yuuri smiled back, though the gesture was weak. He would calm down once they reached the ferry and truly settle his nerves once they were aboard the train. From there, any delays would be out of his hands and he would be free to turn his attention to making sure that Mister Nikiforov was entertained, rather than on time. “I wanted you to see how well I could arrange your trips, and yet I’ve fallen apart before we’ve even set off.”</p>
<p>“I find it endearing, your level of care,” Mister Nikiforov insisted and reached into his jacket, pulling from it a small box. “Perhaps, this could help?” </p>
<p>Since the start of his employment, Yuuri had received a number of gifts from Mister Nikiforov, though none were ones he had been able to protest. Mister Nikiforov had presented him with several new outfits, both for his days working inside the estate and for outings. While out on errands, dark neutral tones remained the standard sign of a dedicated valet, but Mister Nikiforov had insisted that Yuuri carry handkerchiefs and wear ties of midnight blue and rich tyrian, saying they suited Yuuri more than the bleakness of an all-back ensemble. As the valet of a designer, Yuuri could hardly refuse, as his own fashion reflected on Mister Nikiforov. It had taken growing used to the attention Yuuri received as a result, but as a servant proud of his master’s work, he was able to preen more than retreat in self-consciousness. </p>
<p>The gift box Mister Nikiforov handed to him now contained a new pocket watch. The one Yuuri currently wore was aged, purchased more than a decade prior, and it often required maintenance to guarantee the time it kept was accurate. “It’s beautiful…” </p>
<p>The watch casing was of rose gold, the precious metal colored with the most delicate pink. It was etched with decorative snowflakes, as intricate and captivating as the first white fall of winter. When opened, the face of the watch was just as stunning, with fine filigree numerals denoting the time. Yuuri compared it to his current watch and laughed when he saw that his own was indeed running three minutes slow. “I should object, sir.”</p>
<p>“A valet with a reliable watch will ensure his master’s timeliness,” Mister Nikiforov stated, his argument prepared and flawless. “I insist.”</p>
<p>With an obedient nod, Yuuri removed his old pocket, unwinding the chain from his vest button. He replaced both with those presented to him, smiling at the rosy tint of the watch and chain against his dark jacket. “Thank you, sir. I will treasure it.”</p>
<p>“I know you will.”</p>
<p>Yuuri was spoiled in Mister Nikiforov’s service and he was keenly aware of it. He was paid well, fed well, and regarded well, so much so that he could not fathom a happier employment. The carriage ride was a lengthy one and yet it passed swiftly with easy conversation, Mister Nikiforov speaking of Geneva and the garment shops he wanted to visit with infectious excitement. </p>
<p>They arrived on the coast with plenty of time to spare, as confirmed by Yuuri’s new pocket watch, enough to relish a cup of tea before the ferry set off. Yuuri kept to his master’s side as Mister Nikiforov wandered, gleefully enjoying the fresh air and the churning of the water. When he grew bored, Yuuri produced a pack of cards for them to play with, taking up the spare hour. </p>
<p>For all of Yuuri’s earlier fretting, the ferry docked without incident, and he and Mister Nikiforov found their way from the port to the train station as easily as if it were a daily journey. There, Yuuri needed a moment to find where they were to board, requesting help from a porter who took their bags and led the way in exchange for a coin. </p>
<p>“Oh, Yuuri, you’ve outdone yourself.”</p>
<p>When making arrangements for their trip, Yuuri had followed Mister Nikiforov’s request to book a first-class carriage. The cost had been significantly more than Yuuri was used to paying, but he had proceeded at Mister Nikiforov’s insistence. The train they were taking was a new one, the marketing flyers Yuuri had glimpsed back in London promising luxury fit for a royal. He saw now that the description had hardly been an exaggeration. </p>
<p>Their ticket was for the forward-most carriage, ensuring privacy at the expense of quiet. The windows were thick and double-paned, however, and Yuuri hoped that would be enough to keep down the noise of the engine. Yuuri had taken overnight trains before and the cots were never quite comfortable, the space limited, and the bustling of fellow passengers in the hall outside a distraction. </p>
<p>Here, their expensive ticket had purchased a carriage split in two, half of the space reserved for a sitting area with plush armchairs beside wide windows, and the other half taken up by a washing space and two twin beds, one on either side of the carriage. Yuuri had not been aware that the sleeping arrangements would be such, as it meant he would be sleeping by Mister Nikiforov’s side, with only a few feet of space separating the beds. The armchairs in the sitting area looked cozy enough for a light slumber, but he could concern himself with that issue later in the evening. </p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov appeared delighted, raising and lowering the window shutters and inspecting the pull-down curtains, before throwing himself onto one of the beds in a test of the mattress. “This is splendid!” </p>
<p>A relief, to be sure. If only all of life’s worries could be erased by a single smile from his master. </p>
<p>Shortly after the train departed from the station, Yuuri exchanged Mister Nikiforov’s travel coat for a dinner jacket, and together they made their way to the dining car. Over the weeks, Yuuri had grown accustomed to taking dinner with Mister Nikiforov, his master preferring to not dine alone when Yuuri was not otherwise occupied with a more urgent task. </p>
<p>Yuuri enjoyed their evening meals together, whether Mister Nikiforov was animatedly speaking of that day’s project or if he instead asked Yuuri to recite various news, not caring if it were about sport or politics or gossip, only wanting the room not to fall into silence. For Yuuri, even the blandest of meals would taste divine if served alongside Mister Nikiforov’s beauty. Yuuri had thought the appeal of Mister Nikiforov’s looks would fade the more time he had to admire them, yet he had only grown more infatuated with each passing day.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov chose a table near the center of the carriage, away from the bustling of both doors. Outside the windows, the train had already entered the countryside and the sun was sinking low, casting an orange hue across the sky. It created a dark silhouette of trees and farms as they sped past and, with the lamps lit within the dining car, the atmosphere was amorous. The limited size of the table did not leave much space between them, though the pleased expression on Mister Nikiforov’s face made it seem that he did not distinctly mind the proximity. </p>
<p>A car attendant came to pour them champagne and take their order, with Mister Nikiforov letting Yuuri speak for them both. As soon as the gentleman departed, Yuuri glanced at his master to check that he had not been mistaken with his request. The small smile and nod of approval he received in response made all the weight fall from his shoulders. </p>
<p>“It’s nice to relax for a day,” Mister Nikiforov stated, resting back in his chair as he glanced around the carriage. It was simple, with minimal decorations, but the wood interior was dark and lacquered, giving it an air of class.</p>
<p>“I am glad one of us was able to relax,” Yuuri answered with good nature, tugging up the hems of his sleeves. He removed his right glove, pausing when Mister Nikiforov reached across the table, his palms up before Yuuri. His first assumption would have been that Mister Nikiforov wanted his own gloves removed as well, except he was not wearing a pair. “Sir?”</p>
<p>“Give me your hand, Yuuri. The gloved one.”</p>
<p>Hesitating with furrowed brows—though only for a moment—Yuuri laid his hand atop those held out by Mister Nikiforov. Rather than give Yuuri something to hold in his stead or scold him for some spot staining the well-worn leather, Mister Nikiforov took hold of the edge of Yuuri’s glove and slowly pared it from his skin, his fingertips skimming the back of Yuuri’s hand as he removed the article for his valet. His full lips quirked at the corners, blue eyes gentle as he then set the glove at the corner of the table, beside its pair. </p>
<p>If Yuuri were to glance toward the windows, he would undoubtedly see the reflection of a fully flushed face, his cheeks hotter than a bonfire. “Mister Nikiforov, sir…”</p>
<p>“You’re always taking my clothing, Yuuri. Can’t I do the same for you once?”</p>
<p>No. No, because that was Yuuri’s duty and to have his master perform such an act in such a servant-like manner—Yuuri should have felt shame for permitting it, particularly since they were not alone in the dining carriage and there were others present who might have witnessed it. And yet, in that moment, the only thought at the forefront of his mind was the prickling of his skin, nerves alight where Mister Nikiforov had so delicately made contact. “Just this once…”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov beamed, delighted. If Yuuri had still been wearing the other glove, he would have permitted Mister Nikiforov to take that one as well, unable to curtail such unbridled joy. Surely, a single glove removed was not a boundary overstepped. </p>
<p>The pleased smile remained on Mister Nikiforov’s expression, even after their meals arrived. Yuuri sat with his hands folded in his lap, nerves still humming, waiting for Mister Nikiforov to take his first few bites before starting on his own. Their dinner consisted of breaded veal cutlets and chilled slices of fresh tomatoes arriving on matching plates. Yuuri had never eaten a train meal so satisfactory, his belly filled and palate sated. Good food in good company would always make for a splendid evening. </p>
<p>By the end of their meal, the sun had fully set outside, rendering the train windows black and the view outside absent. Yuuri escorted Mister Nikiforov back to their carriage, then excused himself in order to request a hot cup of tea for his master while he wound down for the night. </p>
<p>Now that they were aboard and well into the rail journey, Yuuri could relax. He had none of his usual nightly duties awaiting him, apart from awaiting a yawn from his master. Returning to their carriage, Yuuri brought tea for them both and fetched a small jar of jam from his luggage, which he had brought just in case its absence during their travels would render Mister Nikiforov unable to enjoy his tea exactly as he preferred it.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov had taken one of the chairs in the sitting area, a book open in his lap. He thanked Yuuri for the tea, humming happily at the first sip. “You are far too good to me, my dear Yuuri.”</p>
<p>“I am as good as any valet should be for his dear master,” Yuuri reassured him, taking the chair opposite Mister Nikiforov. “Please let me know if you need anything.”</p>
<p>“Gazing upon your lovely face is enough for me.”</p>
<p>Yuuri buried said lovely face into his own novel, lest the brightness of his blush betray him. An hour passed with nothing more than the rattling of the train and the rustling of turning pages, though shortly after, Yuuri noticed that Mister Nikiforov had set his book facedown in his lap and not picked it up again. Rather, his master had set an elbow on the windowsill and placed his face into his palm, gazing across at Yuuri. </p>
<p>“Have I disturbed you, sir?” Yuuri asked, folding pages over onto his finger to hold his place. </p>
<p>“No.” Mister Nikiforov shook his head. “My novel bored me. I should have brought along something with more flair of romance. Or adventure.” </p>
<p>“Would you like to exchange?”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. “Does yours contain either?”</p>
<p>“A bit of both.”</p>
<p>“Then will you read to me?”</p>
<p>Yuuri flipped to the front of the book, finding and folding down the first page. </p>
<p>“Oh, Yuuri, you don’t need to restart for me.”</p>
<p>“You’d be at a loss otherwise.”</p>
<p>“But you’re already midway through,” Mister Nikiforov protested, his silver brows furrowing. “I promise you, I can use the power of my imagination. It’ll be like solving a mystery as I listen.”</p>
<p>“Then I should read you a mystery novel,” Yuuri answered lightly, keeping his book firmly on the first page. “It’s no imposition, believe me. I can’t recall the last time I visited this story; a brushing up of my memory would benefit me as well.”</p>
<p>“If that is so, then go on.”</p>
<p>Smiling gently, Yuuri nodded and quietly cleared his throat before starting on the first lines of the novel. Mister Nikiforov’s blue gaze stayed trained on him as he read, softening with each page that Yuuri voiced aloud. He kept his tone purposefully soft as he introduced the characters and the hints of a budding conflict, though perhaps the lull of his cadence was too great, as Mister Nikiforov’s eyes slipped shut not long after Yuuri finished the first chapter. </p>
<p>Yuuri let his words fade and it was several minutes before Mister Nikiforov noticed, stirring and lifting his lashes. “Oh, please don’t stop, Yuuri.”</p>
<p>“Should I prepare your bed, sir?”</p>
<p>“I wanted to listen to you a bit longer. Your voice is so soothing.”</p>
<p>“Your neck will be sore if you doze off in that position,” Yuuri warned, shutting the book. “And in such tight quarters, I would have difficulty carrying you.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov laughed. “Would you carry me to bed if I dozed off in a setting more conducive?”</p>
<p>“If it were required of me.”</p>
<p>“My knight in shining armor,” Mister Nikiforov sighed, sitting up and correcting his posture. “I’ll agree if you read for me some more once I’m in bed.”</p>
<p>“Gladly, sir.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov held out his arms and his hands, palms up once again. “Then take me to bed, my dear Yuuri.”</p>
<p>Unable to hide his flush behind the book this time, Yuuri simply let it burn as he accepted Mister Nikiforov’s hands and helped him to his feet. He had laid out their night clothes earlier and quickly turned down the bed, covering the windows with the pull-down curtains to ensure privacy as he changed Mister Nikiforov out of his daywear. </p>
<p>The nighttime routine had become comfortable over the weeks, with Yuuri enjoying the calm of it. Once Mister Nikiforov was fitted into his nightgown, Yuuri tended to his hair, brushing the day out of the silken silver strands, and then braiding them. As he always did, Mister Nikiforov melted into his touch. </p>
<p>“I must apologize, Yuuri,” Mister Nikiforov said with a sigh once a bow had been tied at the bottom of his braid, Yuuri positioning it over his shoulder so that it would not fall back and crumple beneath him when he lay down. </p>
<p>“For what, sir?”</p>
<p>“For being so demanding. If you don’t even have time to read a book at leisure… Well, perhaps I need to re-evaluate your obligations.”</p>
<p>Pausing in his task of folding Mister Nikiforov’s discarded daywear, Yuuri met his master’s sincere expression. “Are you not happy with me?”</p>
<p>“No, no! The opposite!” Mister Nikiforov’s answer came with strong haste. “With my previous valet, I always changed my own clothing because I never enjoyed being dressed but with you… Everything you do for me feels like a gift I ought to treasure. I don’t wish to overwork you.”</p>
<p>“You couldn’t possibly,” Yuuri replied. Mister Nikiforov was far less demanding than the master Yuuri had kept before him, and any labor hardly felt like a burden when completed for the benefit of his current master. “I assure you, sir, I am beyond happy to be in your service.”</p>
<p>“As much as I believe you, I cannot help wanting to give something back.”</p>
<p>“You give me plenty,” Yuuri assured him. “You pay me more than fairly and I have not one complaint about the room I’ve been given. Do not forget that the clothes I’m wearing now are gifts from you, sir.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulling up the rose gold chain holding his new pocket watch. “As is this. Add to all of that the smile I get to witness daily, when you’re pleased, and there is nothing more in this world that I could want.”</p>
<p>The warmth of Mister Nikiforov’s responding chuckle spread through the carriage, chasing away any chill of night that might have crept in through the windows. “If you continue to say such sweet words, I’ll think that I’ve found myself in a romance novel of my own, my dear Yuuri.”</p>
<p>“Pardon me, then, sir.”</p>
<p>“Don’t apologize. I’m giddy with the notion.” Once again, Mister Nikiforov waved off Yuuri’s concerns, sliding between the bedsheets as he did so. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me help you change into your sleep clothes?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“A loss on my part, but I fear I must accept. You will join me, though, won’t you? In tucking in?”</p>
<p>“Of course.” A bit of an early night was a privilege. Yuuri hastened to finish taking care of Mister Nikiforov’s clothing, setting them away and hanging up his clothes for the morning, so that they might be ready and unwrinkled as the sun came up. He changed in the sitting area, excusing his appearance as he returned to the main part of the carriage and dimmed the lamps. “Did you still wish for me to read some more?”</p>
<p>“Please. Until I fall asleep,” Mister Nikiforov said, turning onto his side and casting his gaze at Yuuri. He watched as Yuuri took a seat upon his bed, finding the page he’d left off the novel. “I rather like this. Going to bed at the same time, in the same quarters. It’s as if we’ve wed.”</p>
<p>“If we were wed, I would hope that we would share a bed as well,” Yuuri said without thinking, his eyes growing wide as he processed the slip of his own tongue. However, before he had a chance to correct himself or apologize, he was overwhelmed by the chiming, melodic sound of his master’s laughter. </p>
<p>The smile stretched across Mister Nikiforov’s beautiful face was wide and genuine, and his darling chuckles had Yuuri believing that perhaps he had made no mistake. “I pray, my dear Yuuri, for that to one day be true. Now please, read to me and spin me the fantasy of a whirlwind romance, before I embarrass myself trying to tempt you closer to me.”</p>
<p>“Y-yes, sir. Of course…” Yuuri’s fingers trembled as he found the right line in the novel, rushing to begin so he could escape the thoughts his mind had trailed off to. </p>
<p>It seemed that no matter what country they were in, Yuuri was absolutely helpless and hopeless when it came to the natural charms of Mister Nikiforov.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://somethingyoirelated.tumblr.com/post/635400891768471552/art-for-chapter-6-of-the-noblest-form-of">Chapter six art</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With a groan, Yuuri hoisted the last trunk onto the transport carriage. It landed with heft, the fabrics filling it heavier than Yuuri would have imagined possible. He had insisted on helping load the trunks, far too numerous to pass off to the courier hired to transport them back to Mister Nikiforov’s main boutique, as there was no possible way they could have carried them onto the train and ferry on their own. </p><p>Yuuri had spent a few days being run ragged around the garment district as Mister Nikiforov spent more money than Yuuri had seen in his entire life. Mister Nikiforov had purchased every color, every pattern, every type of fabric imaginable—even remarking on a particularly hideous print before requesting a section of it added to their already sizable order in one shop. He avoided Yuuri’s quizzical expression as he walked off to flip through yet another stack of fabrics. </p><p>It was on the third afternoon, when Mister Nikiforov insisted on looping shops they had already visited and thoroughly exhausted, that Yuuri came to suspect there was a factor to the journey he might not have been made aware of. Perhaps, a secret deal had been arranged or there was a long-distance love affair his master was carrying on—Mister Giacometti was originally from Switzerland, after all—but up till that morning, Mister Nikiforov had not left Yuuri’s side. However, Yuuri’s suspicions were what resulted in his easy agreement when Mister Nikiforov asked him to take the trunks of fabrics along to the courier, insisting that he would be fine on his own for an hour or two. Yuuri did request that his master leave him an address should he leave their hotel, so that Yuuri would know where to inquire should anything go awry. </p><p>Yet, when Yuuri returned, Mister Nikiforov was enjoying a cup of tea in the hotel’s dining room, Yuuri’s novel open in his lap. He smiled the moment Yuuri walked into the room, folding the pages of the novel closed on a bookmark, his attention turned entirely to his valet. If he were to tell the truth, Yuuri hardly felt up to their return home, their train scheduled to depart late in the afternoon. The only way he had survived their trip thus far was due to his foresight in booking them separate rooms for the evenings, as sleeping and awakening at his master’s side in the carriage had nearly driven him to wit’s end. Yuuri needed the distance to recover after a full day in Mister Nikiforov’s overwhelming presence, too drawn in by sweet words and kind gestures and fleeting touches that came with too much fondness and familiarity, blurring the line between master and valet. </p><p>As Yuuri was not serving Mister Nikiforov his meals, nor did he need to tend to his room as he would at home, it had been easy to get swept up in the illusion that their lunches and dinners together were taken on equal footing and that when Yuuri undressed him before bed, it was an action of choice rather than of obligation. Not that Yuuri would ever wish for any different, but for a servant to pine for his master with such affection could only spell disaster. </p><p>“All finished, my Yuuri?”</p><p>“Yes, sir.” Yuuri had also packed their suitcases before heading out, ensuring that Mister Nikiforov could spend the day in leisure, relaxing after a few hectic days of business.</p><p>“Then join me for tea? I have somewhere for us to go after, but please indulge me until then.”</p><p>Bowing his head, Yuuri took the seat across from his master, smiling lightly when Mister Nikiforov waved down a waiter and requested a cup of tea for Yuuri. “Would you like me to fetch the jam from upstairs, sir?” Yuuri offered, but Mister Nikiforov waved his hand in dismissal. </p><p>“One cup without it won’t kill me. I’d rather have the sweetness of your presence at my side.”</p><p>Those were the type of lines that had Yuuri’s mind concocting fanciful scenarios of a love affair, where he would have been free to reach across the table and grasp Mister Nikiforov’s hand in his own, kissing his fingertips in devotion. Instead, he waited until his cup arrived, the waiter filling it with an aromatic Lady Grey before setting the teapot on the table. </p><p>“Actually, my Yuuri, will you humor me for a moment?” Mister Nikiforov asked, leaning forward with a spot of eagerness. </p><p>“For what, sir?”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov lifted the book from his lap and passed it across to Yuuri, gesturing for him to open it to the page he had marked. “Will you read the first line for me?”</p><p>Yuuri did so, holding the book above the table’s edge. <i>“‘The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold...’”</i> </p><p>“Would you lower the book by a centimeter or two?”</p><p>Again, Yuuri obeyed, though the lines blurred in his vision when he did. “Like this, sir?”</p><p>“Yes. Can you read from there?”</p><p>“It’s difficult.”</p><p>“As I suspected,” Mister Nikiforov sighed apologetically. “You’ve been squinting at that pocketwatch I gave you. Are the numerals on it hard to read?”</p><p>“They’re finer, so I am simply getting used to it.” Yuuri did not want Mister Nikiforov to think his gift was unappreciated. “I promise you, sir, the watch is a wonder.”</p><p>“Oh, I was not worried about that,” Mister Nikiforov stated, placing a palm-sized leather case beside Yuuri’s teacup. “Try with those.”</p><p>Curious, Yuuri opened the case and saw that, once again, Mister Nikiforov was spoiling him. Wrapped in a soft kerchief inside the case was a pair of spectacles with rounded wire frames, the lenses thin and made for reading. “Mister Nikiforov—”</p><p>“It could be an inconvenience if a valet misread the time due to his master’s foolishness, wouldn’t you agree? I am merely ensuring you can serve me to the best of your ability. Please, Yuuri.” </p><p>Mister Nikiforov’s gentle smile was all the persuasion Yuuri would ever need. He took the glasses from the case and unfolded them, slipping them onto his face. The carnation pattern on the teapot at the center of the table sharpened slightly, as did the beautiful lines of Mister Nikiforov’s face. Yuuri reopened the book, now set in his lap, and found himself easily able to read the printed text. <i>“‘The curves of your lips rewrite history.’”</i></p><p>“They’re not too strong, are they?”</p><p>“Absolutely perfect, sir,” Yuuri responded, flipping the pages as if he were checking an illusion. He then closed the book in favor of slipping his watch from his pocket, checking the time. The fine markings etched into the face were clear in his view. “It’s precisely fourteen minutes past noon.” </p><p>“Marvelous!” Mister Nikiforov’s delight was infectious, causing Yuuri to smile with him. </p><p>“You are too kind to me,” Yuuri sighed, placing his watch in its pocket. </p><p>“Nonsense! I am only as kind as you deserve.”</p><p>Yuuri could have argued, if it were not out of place. He kept the glasses on as they finished their tea, leaving the table to pay and request a carriage. Mister Nikiforov then asked him to fetch a piece of luggage from his room, a suitcase that his master had not yet opened on their trip. It was one that his master had packed himself prior to their departure, meaning that Yuuri had not been privy to its contents. He had thought it would go missing during his morning absence, containing the urge to ask after he had brought it down to the lobby of their lodgings. </p><p>Mister Nikiforov, who had been lounging in an armchair, stood when Yuuri rejoined his company just in time to hear that a carriage was awaiting them. After confirming that Yuuri had the correct suitcase, Mister Nikiforov led them out, providing their driver with the requested address and then waiting for Yuuri to open the door for him. Yuuri did not hesitate to hold out his hand, though he did resist the awful urge to give Mister Nikiforov’s fingers a squeeze as he stepped up. </p><p>“The ride won’t be too long,” Mister Nikiforov remarked as Yuuri sat down across from him, his blue gaze settling on Yuuri’s face. He smiled, then moved across the carriage, taking up the cushioned space beside his valet. “Do you like them, then?” he asked, indicating to the spectacles that Yuuri still wore. </p><p>“Ah, yes. They’re comfortable.” Yuuri had already forgotten they were on. He reached up to remove them, only to be stopped by Mister Nikiforov resting his hands atop Yuuri’s knuckles. </p><p>“Permit me,” Mister Nikiforov requested, though he did not wait for permission. He touched the temples of Yuuri’s new spectacles, skimming his fingertips along the firm wires until he met and traced the curve of Yuuri’s ears. His fingers lingered and even as he pinched the temples between the pads of his thumbs and forefingers, the others skimmed behind the shell of Yuuri’s ears in a light caress before he removed them from Yuuri’s face. As Mister Nikiforov drew his hands and the glasses away, he brushed a fleeting touch along the line of Yuuri’s jaw.  “They suit you, my dear Yuuri.” </p><p>“Only because your taste in style is impeccable.” </p><p>“It helps that my valet has such a handsome face.” </p><p>“You say that as if your reflection does not deserve a full wing in an art museum,” Yuuri replied, setting the glasses back in the kerchief and case and tucking them into an inner pocket in his jacket. “However, I am grateful that you consider me to be easy on your eyes.”</p><p>“You are infinitely lovely in my eyes,” Mister Nikiforov assured, staying seated by Yuuri’s side despite being free to move away. </p><p>Yuuri did not dare put distance between them, even though it might have been advisable. “May I ask, sir, of our destination?”</p><p>“Ah. Yes, that…” Mister Nikiforov cleared his throat and fidgeted, correcting how his vest and jacket sat on his torso, as if it were not already impeccable. “We are headed to the home of my former mentor. That suitcase contains gowns I’ve completed for her, at her request. Her hands have, unfortunately, grown unsteady in recent years. It’s the sort of delivery I preferred to make in person, as I am sure you could understand.” </p><p>Furrowing his brows, Yuuri looked at the suitcase and then at his master. He knew whom it was Mister Nikiforov spoke of, as Lilia Baranovskaya was the woman to whom his master credited much of his success. “Why did you not inform me of this beforehand?” </p><p>“Because, even though I have come into my own since leaving her tutelage, she still terrifies me,” Mister Nikiforov laughed with good nature, though the cadence did hitch up at the end in a hint of nervousness. “If I had told you and saw you show worry, I knew there would be no manner in which I could gather my own courage. Please forgive my cowardice. It will only be a brief visit to drop off the gowns and then we shall be on our way. I will make you promise, however, to hold my hand if I leave there shaking.”</p><p>If given the opportunity and permission, Yuuri would hold Mister Nikiforov’s hand regardless. </p><p>As Mister Nikiforov had stated, their carriage ride was not one of considerate length and soon they were escorted into the parlor of Ms. Baranovskaya’s stately home. When the mistress of the house swept into the room to accost, rather than greet, her guests, Yuuri instantly understood where it was Mister Nikiforov’s nerves had been founded. She moved with purpose, her head held high, chin up, nose pointed and eyes sharp. </p><p>“Vitya, you have kept me waiting.” Ms Baranovskaya’s voice was firm and unforgiving. Had such a tone been aimed at Yuuri, he felt that he would have crumbled on the spot. “I expected you at half past noon.”</p><p>“Forgive me, I got lost in a novel,” Mister Nikiforov said, his air light and smile innocent. “I have your gowns. Yuuri, will you please?”</p><p>Yuuri hurried forward, handing the suitcase off to his master who set it on a parlor table and flipped it open. Immediately, Yuuri caught sight of a gown made of rich burgundy, like a fine red wine, with gold accents. As Yuuri stepped aside, Victor lifted out the gown and laid it out for Ms. Baranovskaya to inspect. Her fierce expression stayed neutral as she checked the stitches of the insert zipper and then flipped the skirt to thumb her way along the inner seams. “Hmph.” </p><p>With a snap of her fingers, Ms. Baranovskaya summoned a maid to her side, who muttered a quiet pardon as she pulled forth a partition so Ms. Baranovskaya could change into the gown without flashing her inner layers to the men in the room. After how freely Mister Nikiforov and Miss Babicheva had acted in the presence of others, Yuuri nearly found the modesty odd. It would seem that his master’s eccentricism was genuinely his own, rather than learned behavior. </p><p>“The skirt is shorter than the measurements I had conveyed to you,” Ms. Baranovskaya called from behind the partition after a few painfully long minutes, yet there was no bite in her tone. </p><p>“The measurements you provided me with were the same that I had in my records, but if I recalled correctly, you have recently taken to wearing shorter heels. Thus, I adjusted,” Mister Nikiforov replied, his hands clenched together in front of him as he waited. “Did I miscalculate?”</p><p>“Just like you not to listen, thinking you know better than your client.” The partition was drawn aside and even Yuuri’s amateur eyes could see that the bottom of the gown hung at the ideal length for its style. “Of course it would be perfect, Vitya, you absolute brat.”</p><p>Yuuri did not expect the shift, but Ms. Baranovskaya’s thin lips curled at the corners, prompting Mister Nikiforov to beam and dip into an accomplished bow. It seemed that Mister Nikiforov’s disobedience yielded exactly the right results and no sooner had Ms. Baranovskaya done a full evaluation of the gown in the mirror than was the partition drawn back, so that she could try on the second one. </p><p>“Tell me, should I expect to be in need of something grand in the coming months?”</p><p>“I have no plans for anything of the sort,” Mister Nikiforov replied, while Yuuri closed the suitcase and set it on the floor now that it was no longer in use. “Should I?”</p><p>“You know well what I’m awaiting. Don’t act coy.” </p><p>“Then I can only disappoint.”</p><p>From behind the partition came tut of irritation and moments later, Ms. Baranovskaya was before them again, this time clad in a deep and brilliant emerald green. Yuuri could not help but admire his master’s handiwork, the gown stunning and complementary to Ms. Baranovskaya’s fierce looks, giving her a regal appearance. “You are not getting any younger, my dear Vitya.”</p><p>Mister Nikiforov smiled, though the expression came without the joy Yuuri had grown accustomed to seeing. “Please, Lilia, I am full of hearing the same lectures from my friends.” </p><p>“You would do well to listen,” Ms. Baranovskaya replied, her green eyes narrowing into a killer glare. “All we wish is for you to find someone who will care for you. A gentleman, if you so insist, who will stay by your side as you deserve.”</p><p>Rather than protest or agree, Mister Nikiforov gestured to the man already standing at his side. “I have Yuuri.”</p><p>“Your valet?” Ms. Baranovskaya gave him a glance, though it lasted barely more than a second as she took Yuuri in from head to toe. “Do not joke. He couldn’t even get you here on time.”</p><p>“That fault is entirely my own,” Mister Nikiforov defended, casting Yuuri an assuring look. “Yuuri has been doing an absolutely marvelous job in looking after me, haven’t you?”</p><p>“I hope that I am,” Yuuri replied, even as his palms grew clammy with doubt. “I beg your pardon for our tardiness today, madam.” </p><p>“Pardon is not something I give freely,” Ms. Baranovskaya said in response, letting out a sigh that carried the weight of knowledge. “If you wish for a pardon, convince your master that he needs someone who has his best interests at heart, and not someone looking to line their pocket or simply warm a bed.”</p><p>“Of course. As far as I am aware, that is indeed what Mister Nikiforov seeks for himself as well.” Yuuri was beginning to understand where his master’s exasperation with the subject came in, if everyone in his life was hounding him about finding a partner to wed without considering his concerns on the matter. “As his valet, I intend to support him no matter how long that takes.”</p><p>“How admirable,” Ms. Baranovskaya remarked, not bothering to conceal her doubt. “Well, I suppose that only time will tell. I still have hope. And thank you, Vitya. Your work continues to astonish, so at least I have that to rest my faith in.”</p><p>“The miles I’ve come to hear such flattery.”</p><p>“Hush now.”</p><p>Yuuri was not certain he understood the dynamic between them, but it was not the time nor place to question it. His curiosity—if he were bold enough to pursue it—could be sated later, in private.</p><p>After Ms. Baranovskaya changed back into her daywear, her conversation with Mister Nikiforov faded into one slightly less judging in tone, as she asked for updates on his boutiques and the trends he was driving. It did not last long, as Mister Nikiforov had promised, with Ms. Baranovskaya’s maid coming in to remind her mistress of her schedule. It was an odd experience for Yuuri overall; then again, that was his entire life in Mister Nikiforov’s care. </p><p>When it was time for their departure, Ms. Baranovskaya saw them to the carriage and before Yuuri could help his master step up, she set a hand on Mister Nikiforov’s shoulder to give her parting words. “Don’t become like me, Vitya—ending up unable to work and on your own, with years of loneliness behind you. Find someone, please. I know you’ll make the right decision, if you only give yourself the chance to look.”</p><p>Rather than reply with sincerity, Mister Nikiforov kissed her hand and then passed his own to Yuuri, accepting help to steady himself as he climbed into their awaiting ride. It was Yuuri who bid Ms. Baranovskaya a formal farewell, bowing low and excusing them both.</p><p>Mister Nikiforov stayed unusually quiet, responding to Yuuri’s questions and gentle direction with minimal words and easy obedience, lost in thought until they were back aboard the overnight train that would transport them back to the coast and the ferry port. He sighed heavily as he took a seat by the window of their private train car, finally turning his blue gaze to Yuuri once again. “I suppose we should start planning that ball after all…”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1340270844736663554?s=20">Chapter seven art</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The planning of Mister Nikiforov’s coming out party had taken up a number of months, as the arrangements were meticulous and many of Mister Nikiforov’s contacts needed adequate time to prepare and to ensure their availability. Yuuri did find it endearing that his master had required a full week merely to decide on the theme of seasons, then a few more days to change his mind, and a few more after that to revert his decision to the original. Once it was cemented, however, Yuuri had taken charge in planning a ball worthy of Mister Nikiforov.</p>
<p>“Yuuri, my dearest, will you spare me a moment?”</p>
<p>In the course of the past week, Yuuri had been sparing many moments for Mister Nikiforov. While Yuuri finalized deliveries for decorations, food and drink, and made payments to the musicians hired to entertain, Mister Nikiforov had been spending his time laboring away on costumes. At first, Yuuri had presumed he was designing his own until Mister Nikiforov had started using Yuuri as his model. Any time Yuuri passed Mister Nikiforov’s work room, he was beckoned in and asked to stand while Mister Nikiforov adorned him in fabrics and synthetic flowers, with Mister Nikiforov never seeming to approve of what he saw.</p>
<p>“Of course, sir.”</p>
<p>Yuuri entered Mister Nikiforov’s work room and saw that the costume Mister Nikiforov had been working on previously—made with soft pastels and a number of fabric-woven flowers—appeared to have been discarded as it was nowhere in sight. Instead, Mister Nikiforov now had far darker colors on his desk, the flowers replaced by crystals.</p>
<p>“Come here, come here.” Mister Nikiforov took Yuuri’s hand and pulled him further inside with audible excitement, grabbing cut cloth and draping it over Yuuri’s shoulder. It formed the half outline of a vest, the pattern on it one of emerald green ivy. “Your thoughts?”</p>
<p>“Quite handsome,” Yuuri responded. The fabric was silken and thick but not heavy, and Yuuri was fonder of it than the lighter shades Mister Nikiforov had been working with previously. “Do you prefer this color?”</p>
<p>“Mmmm, I do think this to be the better choice,” Mister Nikiforov agreed, setting a second section of fabric over Yuuri’s other shoulder to complete the vest-to-be. “The other was far too fair and this will suit you beautifully.”</p>
<p>Yuuri blinked, though he was no longer able to claim surprise. Mister Nikiforov had previously stated that the costume he was working on was not for a guest, and Yuuri’s proportions were too different from his master’s for a tailor fit. “There is no need to design a costume for me, sir.”</p>
<p>“There is every need,” Mister Nikiforov answered with a grin, looking far more pleased than he had in the past several days when he had been struggling with the concept for the outfit. “And you must consider the greatest need: my own.”</p>
<p>“Your own?”</p>
<p>“Yes, my need to see my beloved valet dressed for the occasion! You wouldn’t deny your master at his own party, would you, Yuuri?” Mister Nikiforov’s tone was light and teasing, as he already knew the answer to his question. Yuuri’s skill as a valet did not extend to the ability to deny Mister Nikiforov, even in his more ridiculous moments.</p>
<p>“If you’re happy, so am I,” Yuuri answered honestly, his heart fluttering as Mister Nikiforov’s smile spread wider in response. “I do hope you’re not neglecting your other obligations, for my sake.”</p>
<p>“You’d never let me get away with it,” Mister Nikiforov said as he set his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, smoothing down the fabric. His fingers danced down the front of Yuuri’s chest and slipped around his waist. He was only checking the measurements, but Yuuri’s heart performed somersaults.</p>
<p>It was possible that only a few nights prior, Yuuri’s dreams had been filled with visions of Mister Nikiforov’s hands in his own as they danced together at the party, undisturbed by guests or responsibilities. A dream was but a dream, though a selfish part of Yuuri rather desperately hoped that Mister Nikiforov might ask him to help refresh his memory when it came to the proper steps the day before he was set to dance with others. He was starting to wish for too much.</p>
<p>“Was there anything else you needed right now, sir?”</p>
<p>“No, that is all,” Mister Nikiforov replied, drawing his hands back and removing the fabric to place it back on his work desk. “Will you come fetch me when supper has been prepared? I might lose track of time.”</p>
<p>Yuuri nodded and excused himself, departing from the room with measured haste. The date of Mister Nikiforov’s party was quickly approaching and though Yuuri dreaded the possibility of seeing Mister Nikiforov lonely and displeased with any number of suitors, he knew that it would only be for the best if his master did find himself an adequate partner. In that way, Yuuri might finally be able to rid himself of growing delusions of a romance between a master and his valet…</p>
<p>The greatest challenge Yuuri had faced in his planning was finding an adequate venue, having scouted several clubhouses and dance halls and even a park that did not seem fitting, only to have Mister Nikiforov casually mention a country estate. It was an hour’s carriage ride out of the city, boasting an expansive garden even lovelier than the one Mister Nikiforov maintained at his home and a ballroom that would easily accommodate his guest list of one hundred and some. The corners of the ballroom would be decorated in theme with each of the four seasons and the several guest rooms could be prepared for any lady or gentleman that enjoyed their drink too much to make it home after the party.</p>
<p>Yuuri kept track of the invitations that were returned by post, pleased when he saw that both Mister Giacometti and Miss Babicheva had declared their intentions to attend. Yuuri doubted either harbored a romantic interest in his master, but familiar and friendly faces could calm his nerves on the day of the festivities.</p>
<p>Between the weeks of ball planning, Yuuri had accompanied Mister Nikiforov to several more tennis matches hosted by Miss Babicheva, where she had promoted the sport corset to her companions. As for Mister Giacometti, he continued to be an utterly scandalous influence on his master, selling his salacious wares at an antiques auction one day, then encouraging him to strip bare during a lake outing on another. Though he had failed on the first occasion, luckily, Yuuri had been able to shield Mister Nikiforov’s modesty during the latter. Nevertheless, Yuuri knew well that Mister Giacometti held Mister Nikiforov’s best interests at heart.</p>
<p>The day before the party, Yuuri loaded Mister Nikiforov’s luggage into a carriage, content to witness his master’s elation painted clear across his beautiful face. Mister Nikiforov’s reluctance toward the party had faded only when he had been working on the costumes, far more enthusiastic toward the progress of his designs than the prospect of finding a partner. Yuuri had yet to see what costume Mister Nikiforov had crafted for himself, as his master had kept it a closely guarded secret, always hustling to conceal it before asking Yuuri into his work room. Despite it, Yuuri was certain that no matter what Mister Nikiforov wore, he would be breathtaking.</p>
<p>By the time they arrived at the estate, it was already bustling with activity. Gardeners were out pruning the flowers and ensuring all was green and in bloom, while also setting oil lamps out on the paths should any guests choose to wander outside after sundown. Inside, decorations had been hung, with the ballroom nearly completed. The colors varied between the corners, all of them equally intricate and gorgeous.</p>
<p>Yuuri transported most of Mister Nikiforov’s luggage to the master room, except for three suitcases which he placed in an adjoining room where he would be able to put the finishing touches on the costumes to be worn the following evening. After starting a fire in the furnace and ensuring the lamps were freshly filled so that Mister Nikiforov would not be disrupted by a lack of light, Yuuri set off to check that all of the ball arrangements had been satisfied.</p>
<p>The guest rooms were clean, the kitchens filled, and the ice house stocked. The musicians and servers for the ball were scheduled to arrive in the late morning the next day, but they would be the responsibility of the housekeeper; Yuuri’s duties were to be focused solely on ensuring his master’s readiness. Yuuri checked on Mister Nikiforov several times throughout the day only to be hurriedly dismissed each time as his master was still fast at work.</p>
<p>Come evening, Mister Nikiforov took his dinner in his room. Night had fully settled over the country estate by the time he emerged, looking tired but content. Together, they toured the finalized preparations, Mister Nikiforov gazing in wonder at the decorations of the ballroom and the refreshed state of the gardens. Then, with a devilish smirk on his lips, Mister Nikiforov led Yuuri to the now quiet kitchens and stole a sampling of tartlets and miniature eclairs from the ice box. Yuuri did not have the strength to scold him, chuckling as Mister Nikiforov loaded up a plate and snuck them out, as if he were a common thief and not the owner of the estate.</p>
<p>Yuuri did not expect to end his evening watching his master sport hamster cheeks stuffed with bite-sized pastries, though it was a fate he was not opposed to. He opened the door to the master bedroom for Mister Nikiforov, who paused in the hallway and held up one of the custard tartlets. “Have you tried one yet?”</p>
<p>“No, sir,” Yuuri shook his head. He planned to have his fill during the party, after the appetites of the guests had been sated.</p>
<p>“Please, then,” Mister Nikiforov tempted, taking a step in. “For me.”</p>
<p>It was absolutely criminal that Mister Nikiforov had learned the exact manner in which it was easiest for him to bend Yuuri to his will. Taking a calming breath, Yuuri leaned in and—as carefully as he could—ate the tartlet from Mister Nikiforov’s fingers. His lips briefly met sweet, warm skin and when he pulled away, the coloring on Mister Nikiforov’s cheeks had turned to the pale pink of primrose petals.</p>
<p>“Heavenly,” Yuuri said, casting his master a grateful smile even while his own face grew hot like embers.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Mister Nikiforov echoed quietly, his sky-blue eyes locked on the movement of Yuuri’s mouth, “heavenly…”</p>
<p>A moment passed in enticing silence, before Mister Nikiforov shook himself free of whatever daze he had been trapped within. He cleared his throat, motioning for Yuuri to follow him to his temporary work room, finally permitting his valet inside. At the center was a dress form with a completed costume.</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov had created the most marvelous suit, though the vision behind it was not immediately clear to Yuuri. The jacket and trousers were as dark as midnight, with the ivy on the vest seemingly spread outward. Between the emerald green vines, bloomed the patterns of moonflowers and Casa Blanca lilies, with embedded crystals creating the illusion of sparkling stars. Yuuri could imagine it on his master, fitted and dazzling as more blossoms decorated his long silver hair. He could not, however, picture himself dressed in it.</p>
<p>“I considered which of the seasons you reminded me of and decided, it must be spring,” Mister Nikiforov explained, taking the jacket off the form so that he could drape it over Yuuri’s shoulders instead, turning him to face the cheval mirror. “The warming days, the blossoming beauty, the kind return of life to the world. And yet, you remain to be a quiet mystery to me, like the night. So that is what you will be tomorrow: my dream of a spring night.”</p>
<p>This was Yuuri’s curse for serving such a giving master, suffering the feeling that he did not deserve such heavy praise while being unable to reject it. As he shifted, the crystals on the jacket glittered as they reflected the burning light of the oil lamps. “This is too much,” Yuuri muttered, the resistance in his words weak. “I cannot possibly hope to repay you.”</p>
<p>“You can repay me by promising to wear it tomorrow,” Mister Nikiforov answered, stepping in front of Yuuri and cutting off his reflection in the mirror.</p>
<p>“That will not be enough.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov hummed, tapping a finger to his lips. “A dance. No objections—one dance. You know that I’ll be at my wit’s end by the end of the night tomorrow and I’ll need the excuse for a brief escape. You know how to dance, don’t you, my Yuuri?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Then, you’ll dance with me. I’ll get a respite and be able to see my work as it is meant to be seen, a star at the center of the ball.” Mister Nikiforov’s smile widened as his fingers smoothed down the lapel of the jacket, tracing the lining of one of the moonflowers. “Promise me, Yuuri. One dance. That’s all I ask. It would be a shame for you to throw me such a wonderful party and not be able to indulge.”</p>
<p>It was only a promise, one that could easily be broken if Mister Nikiforov happened to meet the person he was destined to spend the rest of his life with, but Yuuri’s heart still lost its rhythm as he nodded in agreement. “Of course. One dance. I… If you so wish, I could grant you one dance.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov lit up and returned to the dress form, taking the vest from it and requesting that Yuuri remove the one he currently wore, as he wanted to ensure he had not made a mistake in his measurements. His excitement was as vivid as the sparkling gems on the costume jacket.</p>
<p>As Yuuri obeyed, permitting Mister Nikiforov to dress <em>him</em>, he realized that this could not continue. In less than twenty-four hours, Mister Nikiforov was set to be the guest of honor at his coming out party, thrown with the express intent of finding him a life partner. All of the affection and devotion that Mister Nikiforov had shown Yuuri in their months together, if they were only teasing flirtations, then Yuuri was on the verge of having his heart broken. And worse still was the preposterous chance that the affections were genuine, because then, it would be Yuuri’s responsibility to break Mister Nikiforov’s heart, for a master and his valet would never be able to find themselves joined in the bliss of matrimony.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1353727443459309569?s=20">Chapter eight art</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the flickering light of the oil lamps, the silver of Mister Nikiforov’s hair glittered as if it were snow reflecting sunlight. Yuuri had taken utmost care in preparing his master for the ball, heating a bath for him around noon and shaving his face. Drying Mister Nikiforov’s extensive locks required time. Yuuri untangled knots with a comb and brushed Macassar oil through the strands, so that by the time it was ready to be styled, the silver draped over the back of Mister Nikiforov’s chair like gleaming silk. </p>
<p>Hand over hand, Yuuri wove ribbons into Mister Nikiforov’s hair, integrating it into a thick and decorated braid. Between the plaits, Yuuri worked in small gems and snowflakes made of crystal and silver. Mister Nikiforov’s fair face was framed by drooping strands that were then drawn back into the braid, pinned in place with more snowflakes. </p>
<p>The party had already begun and from the hallways, music reverberated. String instruments played with delight, guiding the guests to tire their feet and liven their spirits. Mister Nikiforov, as the one debuting at the ball, would be expected to make his appearance after the arrival of all his guests was confirmed. “Almost done, sir.”</p>
<p>“Mmm, and how do I look?” he questioned, sitting patiently with a book borrowed from Yuuri in his lap. </p>
<p>With each and every day that Yuuri spent in Mister Nikiforov’s employ, he awoke to find that his master’s beauty grew. Now, in the pleasant light of the fireplace keeping the room warm and the mood of levity before any party planned without haste, a single glance at his master could set Yuuri’s heart aflutter. </p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov’s costume was that of the winter solstice and held all the same allure. He wore white robes with sleeves that nearly swept the floor. Snowflakes and white winter birds dominated the pattern, and yet were so subtle that one would only be able to see them within the proximity of an embrace. Miniscule crystals embedded in the fabric and along the stitches made him shine with every subtle movement, making him into the personification of pure, freshly fallen snow. </p>
<p>“You are beyond words,” Yuuri stated with conviction, placing Mister Nikiforov’s braid over his shoulder so that his master could approve Yuuri’s handiwork. “There is not a soul out there who would not be stunned.” </p>
<p>“Only by your hard work, my dear Yuuri,” Mister Nikiforov replied, glancing back at Yuuri rather than at his own reflection in the vanity mirror before him. “Am I ready?”</p>
<p>There was one final touch. Yuuri dabbed cologne on the insides of Mister Nikiforov’s wrists and guided him to tip his head back, so that Yuuri might dot it along his throat and beneath his ears. A couple of stray silver strands already hung loose and Yuuri swept them aside, his fingertips lightly skimming smooth skin. The cologne carried notes of cranberries, warm spices, and evergreen, enveloping Mister Nikiforov in the subtle scents of winter. </p>
<p>When Mister Nikiforov finally stood, serene and glimmering, Yuuri could swear that he felt himself grow faint. Mister Nikiforov belonged in the pages of a northern fairytale, ethereal and empyrean. Anyone and everyone at the ball would be blessed by his presence, and should Mister Nikiforov find himself a partner to share more than a dance with, they would be all the more blessed in their continuing years. Despite Mister Nikiforov’s reservations, Yuuri hoped that he would. Nothing would please him more than the knowledge that his master had someone at his side who would love and support him as wholly as he deserved, who would make him smile as widely as he did in Yuuri’s presence. </p>
<p>“If you are satisfied with your appearance, sir, I will escort you.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov hummed, barely sparing a look at his mirror. Instead he reached out, smoothing down the folds of Yuuri’s lapel with his gloved fingers. “Will you take my hand as you lead me in?”</p>
<p>“If you wish, sir.”</p>
<p>Before departing from the room, Yuuri beckoned a maid from the hall, passing on the message that Mister Nikiforov was set to make his debut. Then, inhaling deeply to calm his rabbit heart, he held out his hand to his master. Mister Nikiforov accepted with fluid grace, his fingers draping over Yuuri’s palm and curling in to take a most delicate hold. Should Yuuri have had the choice, he would have held onto that hand all night. </p>
<p>The glittering white robes of Mister Nikiforov’s costume swirled behind him with each step. Yuuri’s own costume was more comfortable than he could have imagined. Mister Nikiforov’s measurements had been precise and his handiwork immaculate, even if Yuuri did feel overdressed in his simple role as valet. Just out of view of the stairs that would descend into the ballroom, Yuuri paused to review his master’s appearance one more time, ensuring there was not a thread loose nor a strand of hair out of place. In that moment, Mister Nikiforov—as he did in every moment—epitomized perfection.</p>
<p>“Now, I hope you remember your promise to me, Yuuri.”</p>
<p>“To come to your rescue when you appear at wit’s end?”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov’s melodic chuckle was a perpetual delight. “Please, my dear. Come sweep me away when I need you most.”</p>
<p>Yuuri had never fought any temptation so great as his present urge to press his lips to Mister Nikiforov’s hand. Instead, he gave it a gentle squeeze and then ushered Mister Nikiforov to the top of the staircase, where he cleared his throat to announce his master’s arrival. “Presenting... Mister Victor Nikiforov!”</p>
<p>From their distance, Yuuri could not hear any audible gasps but he imagined a fair few sounded from the awaiting crowd. Mister Nikiforov deserved them and more. He had intended to release Mister Nikiforov’s hand before introducing him, but a good valet would accompany his master down the stairs, ensuring no steps were missed. Mister Nikiforov did not let go of Yuuri’s hand, so Yuuri took that as guidance to escort him. They walked down the steps together, Yuuri acting as his master’s support, holding Mister Nikiforov’s hand delicately in the air. </p>
<p>When they reached the ballroom floor, Yuuri stepped aside and bowed, letting Mister Nikiforov’s fingers slip from his own. The music from the hired band trilled across the decorated tile and, in the blink of an eye, Mister Nikiforov was encircled by a number of his eager guests. As he left his side, Yuuri smiled softly at all the cooing compliments and chiming delight bestowed upon his master.</p>
<p>Although Mister Nikiforov was soon lost amongst his guests, receiving flattery and toasting glasses topped with champagne, Yuuri waited to take his leave. He stood against the walls, observing to ensure that his master was adequately engaged and did not require immediate service from his valet. Mister Nikiforov would mingle with all hundred-some guests and, once that task was finished, he would be free to dance with whomever issued an invitation. </p>
<p>It was pleasant, witnessing the soft smile on Mister Nikiforov’s face as he made his rounds, laughing at a joke made by a handsome gentleman and tipping his head in greeting to a lovely lady. Yuuri hoped that by the end of the festive evening, Mister Nikiforov would be found in the constant presence of one individual, inseparable in his blossoming affections. </p>
<p>“Yuuri!”</p>
<p>The familiar voice drew Yuuri’s attention from Mister Nikiforov, even if his gaze did shift slowly. He smiled at the approaching Mister Giacometti, who was clad in a dazzling costume of burgundy and vineyard green. “Happy to see you made it in good form, sir. Is there something I can help you with?”</p>
<p>“I came to greet you!” Mister Giacometti answered with his usual dashing grin, slapping his hands onto Yuuri’s shoulders. “You were not at your master’s side.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t impose on his evening.” Yuuri’s watch had barely ticked and Mister Nikiforov already had more than enough suitors vying for his attention. </p>
<p>“Is that so?” Mister Giacometti hummed, his tone light yet doubtful. “Tell me then. Our dear Victor throws a ball to state that he is ready to be courted and yet he makes his entrance hand in hand with his valet, clad in unmistakably matching costumes... To the naked eye, it would appear as if a statement were being made.”</p>
<p>Yuuri’s smile slipped, despite an effort to maintain it for professionality. “A statement?”</p>
<p>“Your costume.” Mister Giacometti studied the lines of Yuuri’s outfit, mouth quirked at a single corner. “This is undeniably one of Victor’s productions. Any man wearing such a work of art would normally be the envy of the ball. What are you meant to be?”</p>
<p>He had said the costume was too great of a gift, but it was not as if Yuuri could decline such precious work from an insistent master. “I was informed that I am a spring night.”</p>
<p>“So then, he is to be your winter morning?”</p>
<p>Yuuri went silent. Perhaps he should change. No other valet or maid that had accompanied their charge would be in costume. A separate room had been prepared for the servants who were free to make merry, indulging in food and drink and good company. Parties as grand as this were often a favorite of upper servants, as they would be eager to flirt and fool around while their masters and mistresses were otherwise occupied. That was where he was meant to be, in his proper place with those who worked in other households. The only factor that made him resist was the knowledge of how disappointed Mister Nikiforov would be if Yuuri failed to uphold his promise. </p>
<p>“Pardon me, I need a moment,” Yuuri muttered and broke from Mister Giacometti’s company, hurriedly removing himself from the ballroom floor. It was unfortunate, as much as Yuuri prided himself on his skills as a valet, that he needed to be reminded of his stature. And by one of his master’s close friends, at that… </p>
<p>He needed to separate himself from such perceptions, not wishing to dissuade any potential partners for his master with his presence. </p>
<p>Yuuri dipped into the kitchens, politely checking that the staff there were not in any dire need of assistance. He returned to Mister Nikiforov’s quarters and finnicked there, drowning out his guilt by running through his already completed duties, as if doing them twice would prove his worth. After checking the guest rooms, arranged in the anticipation that an individual or two attending the party might fill themselves with a glass of champagne too many, Yuuri resigned himself to joining the other servants. </p>
<p>Matthieu, Mister Giacometti’s valet, was in attendance and greeted Yuuri warmly. Miss Babicheva’s maid was also present and full of compliments for Yuuri’s attire. While they did not have a string quartet like the main ballroom, there was a pianist playing parlor music, the mood infectious and upbeat. On any other evening, it would have required much time and persuasion for Yuuri to join in without reservations, but it was easier to take his mind off his concerns when there was liquor and music. He was, after all, well within his rights to enjoy the party just like everyone else. </p>
<p>The night grew long with lively conversation and gossip, and Yuuri’s cheeks grew heated with each glass that he downed. He was not fond of the special attention on him but, as valet for the hosting household, it was to be expected. As graciously as he could manage, he dodged a few flirtations and permitted himself to be drawn into a jig only when it was Mister Giacometti’s valet that made the demand. </p>
<p>When the lamps dimmed, low on oil, Yuuri managed to escape the servants’ festivities so that he could find the housekeeper and make note of the lamps that needed servicing. He then wandered to the second floor of the manor, to where balconies overlooked the ballroom. The party was no longer in full swing, as the late hour had taken its toll and thinned out the guests who wished to return home before dawn. </p>
<p>It was but a moment before Yuuri caught sight of Mister Nikiforov, his master the most radiant amongst any number of costumes. However, rather than the joy that Yuuri was so accustomed to seeing from his master, Mister Nikiforov carried an air of gloom. He was not swept up in a courting dance, relegating himself to the side as if he were a wallflower. An insult, really, a criminal one! Mister Nikiforov deserved to bear a smile of delight that night and nothing less. </p>
<p>Although champagne bubbled warmly through him, Yuuri was not so far gone as to stumble as he rushed down. He had a promise to keep.</p>
<p>At the doors to the ballroom, Yuuri straightened his costume and swept his fingers through his hair, pushing back any dark strands that might have come loose. If Mister Nikiforov were to dance with a valet, then at least he would dance with a valet that presented an enviable image. Champagne and Mister Nikiforov’s glum expression sparked resolve through Yuuri, and thus he marched through the ballroom, placing himself decidedly before his master. </p>
<p>“Mister Nikiforov, sir, if I may…”</p>
<p>Whatever had caused Mister Nikiforov’s dejection appeared forgotten the second his blue eyes settled on Yuuri. A smile replaced the melancholy and he grasped for Yuuri’s hand as soon as it was offered. “My dear Yuuri, I had begun to think you had forsaken me. Taken up with a lovely young lady, perhaps. Everyone has been so full of praise for your appearance.” </p>
<p>“I did not want to take you away from your guests,” Yuuri said, as that much was true. “But I do apologize if I kept you waiting.”</p>
<p>“My Yuuri, I would wait a lifetime for you,” Mister Nikiforov replied, pulling on Yuuri’s hand and bringing them both to the center of the ballroom. “Thank you for organizing such a wonderful ball. I’ve had a splendid time tonight.” </p>
<p>As the sweetness of finely tuned strings vibrated through the air, they bowed to one another and started to dance. Yuuri’s hand kept a firm hold of Mister Nikiforov’s and, as naturally as if they had rehearsed, Yuuri led his master through the steps. “Was there anyone with whom you felt a connection?”</p>
<p>“There is one gentleman,” Mister Nikiforov stated, the gloved fingers of his other hand splayed and resting over Yuuri’s heart. “But I was always well aware of my fondness for him.”</p>
<p>“Is it not reciprocated?” Yuuri could not imagine how anyone could possibly manage not to immediately fall for Mister Nikiforov’s charms and beauty. Mister Nikiforov’s silver hair twirled as they danced, fluid like his glittering robes of winter. </p>
<p>“Of that, I cannot be sure.” Mister Nikiforov’s smile was cautious and light, his words weighed as he spoke them. “Asking for confirmation can be such a frightening task.”</p>
<p>“Any person who holds your fancy would be a fool to object,” Yuuri answered, slipping the gentle hold he had on Mister Nikiforov’s waist a fraction further along his back, wanting to ground himself in this chance duet. “And a fool would not deserve your devotion. Is it not better to confess than to suffer in silence?”</p>
<p>“For a valet, you are far too good with words.” Mister Nikiforov laughed, dropping his gaze, though only for a moment. “Would you love me, Yuuri? As scatterbrained and selfish as I can sometimes be?”</p>
<p>“I already serve you with all my heart,” Yuuri responded. “And I intend to continue, no matter what challenges await.” </p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov’s smile grew, strengthening like the sun at dawn or the full moon pulling at the tide. He squeezed Yuuri’s fingers and upped the tempo of their dance, even if it did not match the rhythm of the strings. The band, witnessing the change, raced to follow. </p>
<p>With a laugh, Yuuri let his master take over, simply happy to see Mister Nikiforov swept out of his gloom. They danced across the entire ballroom, spinning without sense and improvising steps when they stumbled out of sync, never permitting their hands to part for more than a moment. </p>
<p>And when the music transitioned from one melody to the next, Mister Nikiforov refused to let go of Yuuri’s hand. “One more, Yuuri, please.” </p>
<p>Yuuri was hopeless to deny his marvel of a master. </p>
<p>They danced again, and then again, and yet once more after that, continuing until they were winded and unaware of any other soul existing in the room. Yuuri’s cheeks were flushed and his heart was full, soaring with affection. </p>
<p>Reality, however, was harsh. The moment that they stilled, the ballroom ceased spinning and the forms surrounding them came back into focus. Yuuri loosened the hold he had on his master, taking a half step back. There were still guests present. Perhaps any one of them was hoping for a dance and a chance, and here was Yuuri, selfishly stealing Mister Nikiforov away from the world. “Sir—”</p>
<p>Before he could choke up another syllable, Mister Nikiforov tugged on his hand and yanked Yuuri aside, shifting them away from any number of curious eyes. Yuuri blinked and followed, jaw slack and tongue tied, laughing when Mister Nikiforov determined that the best spot to hide away was a far corner enshrouded by thick, bound curtains. It was hardly a place for a master and his valet to huddle, far more fitting for a pair of forlorn lovers unable to air their confessions out to the world. </p>
<p>“Mister Nikiforov, your guests…”</p>
<p>“Yuuri, you are a most attentive and caring valet but, please, right now, be selfish like your master,” Mister Nikiforov begged, grasping both of Yuuri’s hands in his own. “You promised me relief and here I am, in need of nothing other than your company.”</p>
<p>Mister Nikiforov stood so near that Yuuri could count his silver lashes, inhaling the brumal cologne wisping off cream-like skin. Living out the rest of his days in no company but Mister Nikiforov’s would be the fruition of Yuuri’s dreams, yet he had been reminded of his place and role once today already. “If we continue dancing, how are you to find a suitable partner in life?”</p>
<p>The smile that Mister Nikiforov wore was as soft as it always was in Yuuri’s presence. His master shifted closer still, until the shimmering fabric of their costumes brushed, the tips of their shoes coming together. Yuuri could not help gazing at Mister Nikiforov’s beguiling and ever-so-slightly parted mouth, because if he were to tip up just an inch he would find himself tasting sweet champagne on those fair lips. </p>
<p>“Yuuri…” Mister Nikiforov exhaled his name in a pleading whisper, clutching onto Yuuri’s hands as if it were the only pair he would ever hold. “You must know there is no one else that I would rather spend my evenings with. And my days. And mornings. You cannot tell me to confess, then expect me to keep quiet.”</p>
<p>The sunrise blue of Mister Nikiforov’s gaze beckoned Yuuri in, making him cling to his master’s words as his pulse ran rampant and alarm closed up his throat. </p>
<p>“My dear Yuuri, I am not a man of convention. If this ball is meant for me to find my partner, then let me make my choice freely. Let it be you.” As brilliant as the stars and the moon and the sun combined, Mister Nikiforov raised Yuuri’s hands to his lips and swept a kiss across his fingertips. “Please. Be the one to marry me.” </p>
<p>As he so often was in Mister Nikiforov’s company, Yuuri was too overwhelmed to speak.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein/status/1384532715538628610?s=20">Chapter nine art</a>
</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Follow me on tumblr, <a href="https://lucycamui.tumblr.com/">@lucycamui</a>, or twitter, also <a href="https://twitter.com/lucycamui">@lucycamui</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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